GUNSIGHT  PASS 


HOW  OIL  CAME  TO  THE  CATTLE 

AND  BROUGHT  THE  NEW  WEST 

BY 

WILLIAM  MACLEOD  RAINE 

Author  of  "The  Yukon  Trail"  "A  Man  Four-Square  " 
"The  Big-Town  Round-Up"  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ftitoer^itie  press  Cambri&0e 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,   BY  WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINE 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO 

JAMES  H.  LANGLEY 

WHO  LIVED  MANY  OF  THESE  PAGES 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF 
HIS  HOT-BLOODED  YOUTH 


50*9,1) 


CONTENTS 

I.  "CROOKED  AS  A  DOG'S  HIND  LAIG"  3 

II.  THE  RACE  10 

III.  DAVE  RIDES  ON  HIS  SPURS  15 

IV.  THE  PAINT  Hoss  DISAPPEARS  23 
V.  SUPPER  AT  DELMONICO'S  INTERRUPTED  28 

VI.  BY  WAY  OF  A  WINDOW  34 

VII.  BOB  HART  TAKES  A  HAND  42 

VIII.  THE  D  BAR  LAZY  R  BOYS  MEET  AN  ANGEL  50 

IX.  GUNSIGHT  PASS  56 

X.  THE  CATTLE  TRAIN  68 

XI.  THE  NIGHT  CLERK  GETS  BUSY  PRONTO  79 

XII.  THE  LAW  PUZZLES  DAVE  85 

XIII.  FOR  MURDER  91 

XIV.  TEN  YEARS  96 
XV.  IN  DENVER  100 

XVI.  DAVE  MEETS  Two  FRIENDS  AND  A  FOE  108 

XVII.  OIL  118 

XVIII.    DOBLE  PAYS  A  VlSIT  126 

XIX.  AN  INVOLUNTARY  BATH  131 

XX.  THE  LITTLE  MOTHER  FREES  HER  MIND  143 

XXI.  THE  HOLD-UP  147 


vi  CONTENTS 

XXII.  NUMBER  THREE  COMES  IN 

XXIII.  THE  GUSHER 

XXIV.  SHORTY 
XXV.  MILLER  TALKS 

XXVI.  DAVE  ACCEPTS  AN  INVITATION 
XXVII.  AT  THE  JACKPOT 
XXVIII.  DAVE  MEETS  A  FINANCIER 
XXIX.  THREE  IN  CONSULTATION 
XXX.  ON  THE  FLYER 
XXXI.  Two  ON  THE  HILLTOPS 
XXXII.  DAVE  BECOMES  AN  OFFICE  MAN 

XXXIII.  ON  THE  DODGE 

XXXIV.  A  PLEASANT  EVENING 
XXXV.  FIRE  IN  THE  CHAPARRAL 

XXXVI.  FIGHTING  FIRE 
XXXVII.  SHORTY  ASKS  A  QUESTION 

XXXVIII.    DUG  DOBLE  RIDES  INTO  THE  HlLLS 

XXXIX.  THE  TUNNEL 
XL.  A  MESSAGE 
XLI.  HANK  BRINGS  BAD  NEWS 
XLII.  SHORTY  is  AWAKENED 
XLIII.  JUAN  OTERO  is  CONSCRIPTED 
XLIV.  THE  BULLDOG  BARKS 
XLV.  JOYCE  MAKES  PIES 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 


CHAPTER  I 

"CROOKED  AS  A  DOG'S  HIND  LAIG" 

IT  was  a  land  of  splintered  peaks,  of  deep,  dry  gorges, 
of  barren  mesas  burnt  by  the  suns  of  a  million  torrid 
summers.  The  normal  condition  of  it  was  warfare.  Life 
here  had  to  protect  itself  with  a  tough,  callous  rind,  to 
attack  with  a  swift,  deadly  sting.  Only  the  fit  survived. 

But  moonlight  had  magically  touched  the  hot,  wrin- 
kled earth  with  a  fairy  godmother's  wand.  It  was 
bathed  in  a  weird,  mysterious  beauty.  Into  the  crotches 
of  the  hills  lakes  of  wondrous  color  had  been  poured  at 
sunset.  The  crests  had  flamed  with  crowns  of  glory,  the 
canons  become  deep  pools  of  blue  and  purple  shadow. 
Blurred  by  kindly  darkness,  the  gaunt  ridges  had  soft- 
ened to  pastels  of  violet  and  bony  mountains  to  splen- 
did sentinels  keeping  watch  over  a  gulf  of  starlit  space. 

Around  the  camp-fire  the  drivers  of  the  trail  herd 
squatted  on  their  heels  or  lay  sprawled  at  indolent  ease. 
The  glow  of  the  leaping  flames  from  the  twisted  mes- 
quite  lit  their  lean  faces,  tanned  to  bronzed  health  by 
the  beat  of  an  untempered  sun  and  the  sweep  of  parched 
winds.  Most  of  them  were  still  young,  scarcely  out  of 
their  boyhood;  a  few  had  reached  maturity.  But  all 
x^ere  products  of  the  desert.  The  high-heeled  boots,  the 
leather  chaps,  the  kerchiefs  knotted  round  the  neck, 


4      ,-.  . : ;  :;:  •  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

were  worn  at  its  insistence.  Upon  every  line  of  their 
features,  every  shade  of  their  thought,  it  had  stamped 
its  brand  indelibly. 

The  talk  was  frank  and  elemental.  It  had  the  crisp 
crackle  that  goes  with  free,  unfettered  youth.  In  a 
parlor  some  of  it  would  have  been  offensive,  but  under 
the  stars  of  the  open  desert  it  was  as  natural  as  the  life 
itself.  They  spoke  of  the  spring  rains,  of  the  Crawford- 
Steel.man  feud,  of  how  they  meant  to  turn  Malapi  up- 
side down  in  their  frolic  when  they  reached  town.  They 
"rode"  each  other  with  jokes  that  were  familiar  old 
friends.  Their  horse  play  was  rough  but  good-natured. 

Out  of  the  soft  shadows  of  the  summer  night  a  boy 
moved  from  the  remuda  toward  the  camp-fire.  He  was 
a  lean,  sandy-haired  young  fellow,  his  figure  still  lank 
and  unfilled.  In  another  year  his  shoulders  would  be 
broader,  his  frame  would  take  on  twenty  pounds.  As 
he  sat  down  on  the  wagon  tongue  at  the  edge  of  the 
firelit  circle  the  stringiness  of  his  appearance  became 
more  noticeable. 

A  young  man  waved  a  hand  toward  him  by  way  of 
introduction.  "Gents  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  outfit,  we 
now  have  with  us  roostin'  on  the  wagon  tongue  Mr. 
David  Sanders,  formerly  of  Arizona,  just  returned  from 
makin'  love  to  his  paint  hoss.  Mr.  Sanders  will  make 
oration  on  the  why,  wherefore,  and  how-come-it  of 
Chiquito's  superiority  to  all  other  equines  whatever." 

The  youth  on  the  wagon  tongue  smiled.  His  blue 
eyes  were  gentle  and  friendly.  From  his  pocket  he  had 
taken  a  knife  and  was  sharpening  it  on  one  of  his  down- 
at-the-heel-boots. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  5 

"I'd  like  right  well  to  make  love  to  that  pinto  my 
own  se'f,  Bob,"  commented  a  weather-beaten  puncher. 
"Any  old  time  Dave  wants  to  saw  him  off  onto  me  at 
sixty  dollars  I'm  here  to  do  business." 

"You're  sure  an  easy  mark,  Buck,"  grunted  a  large 
fat  man  leaning  against  a  wheel.  His  white,  expression- 
less face  and  soft  hands  differentiated  him  from  the 
tough  range-riders.  He  did  not  belong  with  the  outfit, 
but  had  joined  it  the  day  before  with  George  Doble, 
a  half-brother  of  the  trail  foreman,  to  travel  with  it  as 
far  as  Malapi.  In  the  Southwest  he  was  known  as  Ad 
Miller.  The  two  men  had  brought  with  them  in  addi- 
tion to  their  own  mounts  a  led  pack-horse. 

Doble  backed  up  his  partner.  "Sure  are,  Buck.  I 
can  get  cowponies  for  ten  and  fifteen  dollars  —  all  I 
want  of  'em,"  he  said,  and  contrived  by  the  lift  of  his 
lip  to  make  the  remark  offensive. 

"Not  ponies  like  Chiquito,"  ventured  Sanders  ami- 
ably. 

"That  so?"  jeered  Doble. 

He  looked  at  David  out  of  a  sly  and  shifty  eye.  He 
had  only  one.  The  other  had  been  gouged  out  years 
ago  in  a  drunken  fracas. 

'  You  could  n't  get  Chiquito  for  a  hundred  dollars. 
Not  for  sale,"  the  owner  of  the  horse  said,  a  little 
stiffly. 

Miller's  fat  paunch  shook  with  laughter.    "I  reckon 
not  —  at  that  price.   I'd  give  all  of  fohty  for  him." 
A" Different  here,"   replied  Doble.    "What  has  this 
pinto  got  that  makes  him  worth  over  thirty?" 

"He's  some  bronc,"  explained  Bob  Hart.    "Got  a 


6  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

bagful  of  tricks,  a  nice  disposition,  and  sure  can  burn 
the  wind." 

"Yore  friend  must  be  valuin'  them  parlor  tricks  at 
ten  dollars  apiece,"  murmured  Miller.  "He'd  ought  to 
put  him  in  a  show  and  not  keep  him  to  chase  cow  tails 
with." 

"At  that,  I've  seen  circus  hosses  that  weren't  one 
two  three  with  Chiquito.  He'll  shake  hands  and  play 
dead  and  dance  to  a  mouth-organ  and  come  a-runnin' 
when  Dave  whistles." 

"You  don't  say."  The  voice  of  the  fat  man  was 
heavy  with  sarcasm.  "And  on  top  of  all  that  edjucation 
he  can  run  too." 

The  temper  of  Sanders  began  to  take  an  edge.  He 
saw  no  reason  why  these  strangers  should  run  on  him, 
to  use  the  phrase  of  the  country.  "I  don't  claim  my 
pinto 's  a  racer,  but  he  can  travel." 

"Hmp!"  grunted  Miller  skeptically. 

"I'm  here  to  say  he  can,"  boasted  the  owner,  stung 
by  the  manner  of  the  other. 

"Don't  look  to  me  like  no  racer,"  Doble  dissented. 
"Why,  I'd  be  'most  willin'  to  bet  that  pack-horse  of 
ours,  Whiskey  Bill,  can  beat  him." 

Buck  Byington  snorted.  "Pack-horse,  eh?"  The  old 
puncher's  brain  was  alive  with  suspicions.  On  account 
of  the  lameness  of  his  horse  he  had  returned  to  camp 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  and  had  discovered  the  two 
newcomers  trying  out  the  speed  of  the  pinto.  He  won- 
dered now  if  this  precious  pair  of  crooks  had  been  get- 
ting a  line  on  the  pony  for  future  use.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  Dave  was  being  engineered  into  a  bet. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  7 

The  chill,  hard  eyes  of  Miller  met  his.  "That's  what 
he  said,  Buck  —  our  pack-horse." 

For  just  an  instant  the  old  range-rider  hesitated,  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  none  of  his  business. 
He  was  a  cautious  man,  not  looking  for  trouble.  More- 
over, the  law  of  the  range  is  that  every  man  must  play 
Ms  own  hand.  So  he  dropped  the  matter  with  a  grunt 
that  expressed  complete  understanding  and  derision. 

Bob  Hart  helped  things  along.  " Jokin'  aside,  what's 
the  matter  with  a  race?  We'll  be  on  the  Salt  Flats  to- 
morrow. I've  got  ten  bucks  says  the  pinto  can  beat 
yore  Whiskey  Bill." 

"Go  you  once,"  answered  Doble  after  a  moment's 
apparent  consideration.  "Bein'  as  I'm  drug  into  this 
I'll  be  a  dead-game  sport.  I  got  fifty  dollars  more  to 
back  the  pack-horse.  How  about  it,  Sanders?  You  got 
the  sand  to  cover  that?  Or  are  you  plumb  scared  of  my 
broomtail?" 

"Betcha  a  month's  pay  —  thirty-five  dollars.  Give 
you  an  order  on  the  boss  if  I  lose,"  retorted  Dave.  He 
had  not  meant  to  bet,  but  he  could  not  stand  this 
fellow's  insolent  manner. 

"That  order  good,  Dug?"  asked  Doble  of  his  half- 
brother. 

The  foreman  nodded.  He  was  a  large  leather-faced 
man  in  the  late  thirties.  His  reputation  in  the  cattle 
country  was  that  of  a  man  ill  to  cross.  Dug  Doble  was 
a  good  cowman  —  none  better.  Outside  of  that  his 
known  virtues  were  negligible,  except  for  the  primal 
one  of  gameness. 

"Might  as  well  lose  a  few  bucks  myself,  seeing  as 


8  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Whiskey  Bill  belongs  to  me,"  said  Miller  with  his 
wheezy  laugh.  "Who  wants  to  take  a  whirl,  boys?" 

Inside  of  three  minutes  he  had  placed  a  hundred  dol- 
lars. The  terms  of  the  race  were  arranged  and  the 
money  put  in  the  hands  of  the  foreman. 

"Each  man  to  ride  his  own  caballo,"  suggested  Hart 
slyly. 

This  brought  a  laugh.  The  idea  of  Ad  Miller's  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  the  seat  of  a  jockey  made 
for  hilarity. 

"I  reckon  George  will  have  to  ride  the  broomtail. 
We  don't  aim  to  break  its  back,"  replied  Miller  genially. 

His  partner  was  a  short  man  with  a  spare,  wiry  body. 
Few  men  trusted  him  after  a  glance  at  the  mutilated 
face.  The  thin,  hard  lips  gave  warning  that  he  had  sold 
himself  to  evil.  The  low  forehead,  above  which  the  hair 
was  plastered  flat  in  an  arc,  advertised  low  mentality. 

An  hour  later  Buck  Byington  drew  Sanders  aside. 

"Dave,  you're  a  chuckle-haided  rabbit.  If  ever  I 
seen  tinhorn  sports  them  two  is  such.  They  're  collectin' 
a  livin'  off'n  suckers.  Did  n't  you  sabe  that  come-on 
stuff?  Their  pack-horse  is  a  ringer.  They  tried  him  out 
this  evenin',  but  I  noticed  they  ran  under  a  blanket. 
Both  of  'em  are  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  laig." 

"Maybeso,"  admitted  the  young  man.  "But  Chi- 
quito  never  went  back  on  me  yet.  These  fellows  may  be 
overplayin'  their  hand,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"Not  a  chanct.  That  tumblebug  Miller  is  one  fishy 
proposition,  and  his  sidekick  Doble  —  say,  he 's  the 
kind  of  bird  that  shoots  you  in  the  stomach  while  he's 
shakin'  hands  with  you.  They're  about  as  warm- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  9 

hearted  as  a  loan  shark  when  he 's  turnin'  on  the  screws 
-  and  about  as  impulsive.  Me,  I  aim  to  button  up  my 
pocket  when  them  guys  are  around." 

Dave  returned  to  the  fire.  The  two  visitors  were 
sitting  side  by  side,  and  the  leaping  flames  set  fantastic 
shadows  of  them  moving.  One  of  these,  rooted  where 
Miller  sat,  was  like  a  bloated  spider  watching  its  victim. 
The  other,  dwarfed  and  prehensile,  might  in  its  uncanny 
silhouette  have  been  an  imp  of  darkness  from  the 
nether  regions. 

Most  of  the  riders  had  already  rolled  up  in  their 
blankets  and  fallen  asleep.  To  a  reduced  circle  Miller 
was  telling  the  story  of  how  his  pack-horse  won  its 
name. 

"...  so  I  noticed  he  was  actin'  kinda  funny  and  I 
seen  four  pin-pricks  in  his  nose.  O'  course  I  hunted  for 
Mr.  Rattler  and  killed  him,  then  give  Bill  a  pint  of 
whiskey.  It  ce'tainly  paralyzed  him  proper.  He  got 
salivated  as  a  mule  whacker  on  a  spree.  His  nose 
swelled  up  till  it  was  big  as  a  barrel  —  never  did  get 
down  to  normal  again.  Since  which  the  ol'  plug  has 
been  Whiskey  Bill." 

This  reminiscence  did  not  greatly  entertain  Dave. 
He  found  his  blankets,  rolled  up  in  them,  and  promptly 
fell  asleep.  For  once  he  dreamed,  and  his  dreams  were 
not  pleasant.  He  thought  that  he  was  caught  in  a,  net 
woven  by  a  horribly  fat  spider  which  watched  him  try 
in  vain  to  break  the  web  that  tightened  on  his  arms 
and  legs.  Desperately  he  struggled  to  escape  while  the 
iftonster  grinned  at  him  maliciously,  and  the  harder  he 
fought  the  more  securely  was  he  enmeshed. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  RACE 

THE  coyotes  were  barking  when  the  cook's  triangle 
brought  Dave  from  his  blankets.  The  objects  about 
him  were  still  mysterious  in  the  pre-dawn  darkness. 
The  shouting  of  the  wranglers  and  the  bells  of  the  remuda 
came  musically  as  from  a  great  distance.  Hart  joined 
his  friend  and  the  two  young  men  walked  out  to  the 
remuda  together.  Each  rider  had  on  the  previous  night 
belled  the  mount  he  wanted,  for  he  knew  that  in  the 
morning  it  would  be  too  dark  to  distinguish  one  bronco 
from  another.  The  animals  were  rim-milling,  going 
round  and  round  in  a  circle  to  escape  the  lariat. 

Dave  rode  in  close  and  waited,  rope  ready,  his  ears 
attuned  to  the  sound  of  his  own  bell.  A  horse  rushed 
jingling  past.  The  rope  snaked  out,  fell  true,  tightened 
over  the  neck  of  the  cowpony,  brought  up  the  animal 
short.  Instantly  it  surrendered,  making  no  further 
attempt  to  escape.  The  roper  made  a  half -hitch  round 
the  nose  of  the  bronco,  swung  to  its  back,  and  cantered 
back  to  camp. 

In  the  gray  dawn  near  details  were  becoming  visible. 
The  mountains  began  to  hover  on  the  edge  of  the  young 
world.  The  wind  was  blowing  across  half  a  continent. 

Sanders  saddled,  then  rode  out  upon  the  mesa.  He 
whistled  sharply  There  came  an  answering  nicker,  and 
presently  out  of  the  darkness  a  pony  trotted.  The  pinto 
was  a  sleek  and  glossy  little  fellow,  beautiful  in  action 
and  gentle  as  a  kitten. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  11 

The  young  fellow  took  the  well-shaped  head  in  his 
arms,  fondled  the  soft,  dainty  nose  that  nuzzled  in  his 
pocket  for  sugar,  fed  Chiquito  a  half-handful  of  the 
delicacy  in  his  open  palm,  and  put  the  pony  through 
the  repertoire  of  trick?  he  had  taught  his  pet. 

"You  wanta  shake  a  leg  to-day,  old  fellow,  and  throw 
dust  in  that  tinhorn's  face,"  he  murmured  to  his  four- 
footed  friend,  gentling  it  with  little  pats  of  love  and  ad- 
miration. "Adios,  Chiquito.  I  know  you  won't  throw 
off  on  yore  old  pal.  So  long,  old  pie-eater." 

Across  the  mesa  Dave  galloped  back,  swung  from  the 
saddle,  and  made  a  bee-line  for  breakfast.  The  other 
men  were  already  busy  at  this  important  business. 
From  the  tail  of  the  chuck  wagon  he  took  a  tin  cup  and 
a  tin  plate.  He  helped  himself  to  coffee,  soda  biscuits, 
and  a  strip  of  steak  just  forked  from  a  large  kettle  of 
boiling  lard.  Presently  more  coffee,  more  biscuits,  and 
more  steak  went  the  way  of  the  first  helping.  The  hard- 
riding  life  of  the  desert  stimulates  a  healthy  appetite. 

The  punchers  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  were  moving  a 
large  herd  to  a  new  range.  It  was  made  up  of  several 
lots  bought  from  smaller  outfits  that  had  gone  out  of 
business  under  the  pressure  of  falling  prices,  short 
grass,  and  the  activity  of  rustlers.  The  cattle  had  been 
loose-bedded  in  a  gulch  close  at  hand,  the  upper  end  of 
which  was  sealed  by  an  impassable  cliff.  Many  such 
canons  in  the  wilder  part  of  the  mountains,  fenced 
across  the  face  to  serve  as  a  corral,  had  been  used  by 
rustlers  as  caches  into  which  to  drift  their  stolen  stock. 
Tk&s  one  had  no  doubt  more  than  once  played  such  a 
part  in  days  past. 


12  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Expertly  the  riders  threw  the  cattle  back  to  the  mesa 
and  moved  them  forward.  Among  the  bunch  one  could 
find  the  T  Anchor  brand,  the  Circle  Cross,  the  Diamond 
Tail,  and  the  X-Z,  scattered  among  the  cows  burned 
with  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R,  which  was  the  original  brand 
of  the  owner,  Emerson  Crawford. 

The  sun  rose  and  filled  the  sky.  In  a  heavy  cloud 
of  dust  the  cattle  trailed  steadily  toward  the  distant 
hills. 

Near  noon  Buck,  passing  Dave  where  he  rode  as 
drag  driver  in  the  wake  of  the  herd,  shouted  a  greeting 
at  the  young  man.  "Tur'ble  hot.  I'm  spittin' cotton." 

Dave  nodded.  His  eyes  were  red  and  sore  from  the 
alkali  dust,  his  throat  dry  as  a  lime  kiln.  "You  done 
said  it,  Buck.  Hotter  'n  hell  or  Yuma. " 

"Dug  says  for  us  to  throw  off  at  Seven-Mile  Hole." 

"I  won't  make  no  heller  at  that." 

The  herd  leaders,  reading  the  signs  of  a  spring  close 
at  hand,  quickened  the  pace.  With  necks  outstretched, 
bawling  loudly,  they  hurried  forward.  Forty-eight 
hours  ago  they  had  last  satisfied  their  thirst.  Usually 
Doble  watered  each  noon,  but  the  desert  yesterday 
had  been  dry  as  Sahara.  Only  such  moisture  was  avail- 
able as  could  be  found  in  black  grama  and  needle  grass. 

The  point  of  the  herd  swung  in  toward  the  cotton- 
woods  that  straggled  down  from  the  draw.  For  hours 
the  riders  were  kept  busy  moving  forward  the  cattle 
that  had  been  watered  and  holding  back  the  pressure 
of  thirsty  animals. 

Again  the  outfit  took  the  desert  trail.  Heat  waves 
played  on  the  sand,  Vegetation  grew  scant  except  for 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  13 

patches  of  cholla  and  mesquite,  a  sand-cherry  bush  here 
and  there,  occasionally  a  clump  of  shining  poison  ivy. 

Sunset  brought  them  to  the  Salt  Flats.  The  foreman 
gave  orders  to  throw  off  and  make  camp. 

A  course  was  chosen  for  the  race.  From  a  selected 
point  the  horses  were  to  run  to  a  clump  of  mesquite, 
round  it,  and  return  to  the  starting-place.  Dug  Doble 
was  chosen  both  starter  and  judge. 

Dave  watched  Whiskey  Bill  with  the  trained  eyes  of 
a  horseman.  The  animal  was  an  ugly  brute  as  to  the 
head.  Its  eyes  were  set  too  close,  and  the  shape  of  the 
nose  was  deformed  from  the  effects  of  the  rattlesnake's 
sting.  But  in  legs  and  body  it  had  the  fine  lines  of  a 
racer.  The  horse  was  built  for  speed.  The  cowpuncher's 
heart  sank.  His  bronco  was  fast,  willing,  and  very  intel- 
ligent, but  the  little  range  pony  had  not  been  designed 
to  show  its  heels  to  a  near-thoroughbred. 

"Are  you  ready?"  Doble  asked  of  the  two  men  in  the 
saddles. 

His  brother  said,  "Let  'er  go ! "  Sanders  nodded.  The 
revolver  barked. 

Chiquito  was  off  like  a  flash  of  light,  found  its  stride 
instantly.  The  training  of  a  cowpony  makes  for  alert- 
ness, for  immediate  response.  Before  it  had  covered 
seventy-five  yards  the  pinto  was  three  lengths  to  the 
good.  Dave,  flying  toward  the  halfway  post,  heard  his 
friend  Hart's  triumphant  "Yip  yip  yippy  yip!"  coming 
to  him  on  the  wind. 

He  leaned  forward,  patting  his  horse  on  the  shoulder, 
murmuring  words  of  encouragement  into  its  ear.  But 
he  knew,  without  turning  round,  that  the  racer  gallop- 


14  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

ing  at  his  heels  was  drawing  closer.  Its  long  shadow, 
thrown  in  front  of  it  by  the  westering  sun,  reached  to 
Dave's  stirrups,  crept  to  Chiquito' s  head,  moved  farther 
toward  the  other  shadow  plunging  wildly  eastward. 
Foot  by  foot  the  distance  between  the  horses  lessened 
to  two  lengths,  to  one,  to  half  a  length.  The  ugly  head 
of  the  racer  came  abreast  of  the  cowpuncher.  With 
sickening  certainty  the  range-rider  knew  that  his 
Chiquito  was  doing  the  best  that  was  in  it.  Whiskey 
Bill  was  a  faster  horse. 

Simultaneously  he  became  aware  of  two  things.  The 
bay  was  no  longer  gaining.  The  halfway  mark  was  just 
ahead.  The  cowpuncher  knew  exactly  how  to  make  the 
turn  with  the  least  possible  loss  of  speed  and  ground. 
Too  often,  in  headlong  pursuit  of  a  wild  hill  steer,  he 
had  whirled  as  on  a  dollar,  to  leave  him  any  doubt  now. 
Scarce  slackening  speed,  he  swept  the  pinto  round  the 
clump  of  mesquite  and  was  off  for  home. 

Dave  was  halfway  back  before  he  was  sure  that  the 
thud  of  Whiskey  Bill's  hoofs  was  almost  at  his  heels. 
He  called  on  the  cowpony  for  a  last  spurt.  The  plucky 
little  horse  answered  the  call,  gathered  itself  for  the 
home  stretch,  for  a  moment  held  its  advantage.  Again 
Bob  Hart's  yell  drifted  to  Sanders. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  bay  was  running  side  by  side 
with  Chiquito,  was  slowly  creeping  to  the  front.  The 
two  horses  raced  down  the  stretch  together,  Whiskey 
Bill  half  a  length  in  the  lead  and  gaining  at  every  stride. 
Daylight  showed  between  them  when  they  crossed  the 
line.  Chiquito  had  been  outrun  by  a  speedier  horse. 


CHAPTER  III 
DAVE  RIDES  ON  HIS  SPURS 

HART  came  up  to  his  friend  grinning.  "Well,  you  old 
horn-toad,  we  got  no  kick  comin'.  Chiquito  run  a 
mighty  pretty  race.  Only  trouble  was  his  laigs  was  n't 
long  enough." 

The  owner  of  the  pony  nodded,  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
He  was  not  thinking  about  his  thirty-five  dollars,  but 
about  the  futile  race  into  which  he  had  allowed  his  little 
beauty  to  be  trapped.  Dave  would  not  be  twenty-one 
till  coming  grass,  and  it  still  hurt  his  boyish  pride  to 
think  that  his  favorite  had  been  beaten. 

Another  lank  range-rider  drifted  up.  "Same  here, 
Dave.  I'll  kiss  my  twenty  bucks  good-bye  cheerful. 
You  'n'  the  HT  hoss  run  the  best  race,  at  that.  Chiquito 
started  like  a  bullet  out  of  a  gun,  and  say,  boys!  how 
he  did  swing  round  on  the  turn." 

"Much  obliged,  Steve.  I  reckon  he  sure  done  his 
best,"  said  Sanders  gratefully. 

The  voice  of  George  Doble  cut  in,  openly  and  offen- 
sively jubilant.  "Me,  I'd  ruther  show  the  way  at  the 
finish  than  at  the  start.  You're  more  liable  to  collect 
the  mazuma.  I'll  tell  you  now  that  broomtail  never 
had  a  chance  to  beat  Whiskey  Bill." 

"Yore  hoss  can  run,  seh,"  admitted  Dave. 

"I  know  it,  but  you  don't.  He  did  n't  have  to  take 
the  kinks  out  of  his  legs  to  beat  that  plug." 

"You  get  our  money,"  said  Hart  quietly.  "Ain't 
that  enough  without  rubbin'  it  in?" 


16  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Sure  I  get  yore  money  —  easy  money,  at  that/' 
boasted  Doble.  "Got  any  more  you  want  to  put  up  on 
the  circus  bronc?" 

Steve  Russell  voiced  his  sentiments  curtly.  "You 
make  me  good  and  tired,  Doble.  There's  only  one 
thing  I  hate  more'n  a  poor  loser  —  and  that's  a  poor 
winner.  As  for  putting  my  money  on  the  pinto,  I'll  just 
say  this:  I  '11  bet  my  li'l '  pile  he  can  beat  yore  bay  twenty 
miles,  a  hundred  miles,  or  five  hundred." 

"Not  any,  thanks.  Whiskey  Bill  is  a  racer,  not  a 
mule  team,"  Miller  said,  laughing. 

Steve  loosened  the  center-fire  cinch  of  his  pony's 
saddle.  He  noted  that  there  was  no  real  geniality  in 
the  fat  man's  mirth.  It  was  a  surface  thing  designed 
to  convey  an  effect  of  good-fellowship.  Back  of  it  lay 
the  chill  implacability  of  the  professional  gambler. 

The  usual  give-and-take  of  gay  repartee  was  missing 
at  supper  that  night.  Since  they  were  of  the  happy- 
go-lucky,  outdoor  West  it  did  not  greatly  distress  the 
D  Bar  Lazy  R  riders  to  lose  part  of  their  pay  checks. 
Even  if  it  had,  their  spirits  would  have  been  unimpaired, 
for  it  is  written  in  their  code  that  a  man  must  take  his 
punishment  without  whining.  What  hurt  was  that  they 
had  been  tricked,  led  like  lambs  to  the  killing.  None  of 
them  doubted  now  that  the  pack-horse  of  the  gamblers 
was  a  "ringer."  These  men  had  deliberately  crossed 
the  path  of  the  trail  outfit  in  order  to  take  from  the 
vaqueros  their  money. 

The  punchers  were  sulky.  Instead  of  a  fair  race  they 
had  been  up  against  an  open-and-shut  proposition,  as 
Russell  phrased  it.  The  jeers  of  Doble  did  not  improve 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  17 

their  tempers.  The  man  was  temperamentally  mean- 
hearted.  He  could  not  let  his  victims  alone. 

4  *  They  say  one's  born  every  minute,  Ad.  Dawged  if 
I  don't  believe  it,"  he  sneered. 

Miller  was  not  saying  much  himself,  but  his  fat 
stomach  shook  at  this  sally.  If  his  partner  could  goad 
the  boys  into  more  betting  he  was  quite  willing  to 
divide  the  profits. 

Audibly  Hart  yawned  and  murmured  his  sentiments 
aloud.  "I'm  liable  to  tell  these  birds  what  I  think  of 
'em,  Steve,  if  they  don't  spend  quite  some  time  layin' 
off 'n  us." 

"  Don't  tell  us  out  loud.  We  might  hear  you,"  ad- 
vised Doble  insolently. 

"In  regards  to  that,  I'd  sure  worry  if  you  did." 

Dave  was  at  that  moment  returning  to  his  place  with 
a  cup  of  hot  coffee.  By  some  perverse  trick  of  fate  his 
glance  fell  on  Doble' s  sinister  face  of  malignant  tri- 
umph. His  self-control  snapped,  and  in  an  instant  the 
whole  course  of  his  life  was  deflected  from  the  path  it 
would  otherwise  have  taken.  With  a  flip  he  tossed  up 
the  tin  cup  so  that  the  hot  coffee  soused  the  crook. 

"Goddlemighty!"  screamed  Doble,  leaping  to  his 
feet.  He  reached  for  his  forty-five,  just  as  Sanders 
closed  with  him.  The  range-rider's  revolver,  like  that  of 
most  of  his  fellows,  was  in  a  blanket  roll  in  the  wagon. 

Miller,  with  surprising  agility  for  a  fat  man,  got  to 
his  feet  and  launched  himself  at  the  puncher.  Dave 
flung  the  smaller  of  his  opponents  back  against  Steve, 
who  was  sitting  tailor  fashion  beside  him.  9  The  gunman 
tottered  and  fell  over  Russell,  who  lost  no  time  in  pin- 


18  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

ning  his  hands  to  the  ground  while  Hart  deftly  removed 
the  revolver  from  his  pocket. 

Swinging  round  to  face  Miller,  Dave  saw  at  once  that 
the  big  man  had  chosen  not  to  draw  his  gun.  In  spite  of 
his  fat  the  gambler  was  a  rough-and-tumble  fighter  of 
parts.  The  extra  weight  had  come  in  recent  years,  but 
underneath  it  lay  roped  muscles  and  heavy  bones.  Men 
often  remarked  that  they  had  never  seen  a  fat  man 
who  could  handle  himself  like  Ad  Miller.  The  two 
clinched.  Dave  had  the  under  hold  and  tried  to  trip  his 
bulkier  foe.  The  other  side-stepped,  circling  round.  He 
got  one  hand  under  the  boy's  chin  and  drove  it  up  and 
back,  flinging  the  range-rider  a  dozen  yards. 

Instantly  Dave  plunged  at  him.  He  had  to  get  at 
close  quarters,  for  he  could  not  tell  when  Miller  would 
change  his  mind  and  elect  to  fight  with  a  gun.  The  man 
had  chosen  a  hand-to-hand  tussle,  Dave  knew,  because 
he  was  sure  he  could  beat  so  stringy  an  opponent  as 
himself.  Once  he  got  the  grip  on  him  that  he  wanted 
the  big  gambler  would  crush  him  by  sheer  strength.  So, 
though  the  youngster  had  to  get  close,  he  dared  not 
clinch.  His  judgment  was  that  his  best  bet  was  his  fists. 

He  jabbed  at  the  big  white  face,  ducked,  and  jabbed 
again.  Now  he  was  in  the  shine  of  the  moon;  now  he 
was  in  darkness.  A  red  streak  came  out  on  the  white 
face  opposite,  and  he  knew  he  had  drawn  blood.  Miller 
roared  like  a  bull  and  flailed  away  at  him.  More  than 
one  heavy  blow  jarred  him,  sent  a  bolt  of  pain  shooting 
through  him.  The  only  thing  he  saw  was  that  shining 
face.  He  pecked  away  at  it  with  swift  jabs,  taking 
•what  punishment  he  must  and  dodging  the  rest. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  19 

Miller  was  furious.  He  had  intended  to  clean  up  this 
bantam  in  about  a  minute.  He  rushed  again,  broke 
through  Dave's  defense,  and  closed  with  him.  His  great 
arms  crushed  into  the  ribs  of  his  lean  opponent.  As  they 
swung  round  and  round,  Dave  gasped  for  breath.  He 
twisted  and  squirmed,  trying  to  escape  that  deadly  hug. 
Somehow  he  succeeded  in  tripping  his  huge  foe. 

They  went  down  locked  together,  Dave  underneath. 
The  puncher  knew  that  if  he  had  room  Miller  would 
hammer  his  face  to  a  pulp.  He  drew  himself  close  to  the 
barrel  body,  arms  and  legs  wound  tight  like  hoops. 

Miller  gave  a  yell  of  pain.  Instinctively  Dave  moved 
his  legs  higher  and  clamped  them  tighter.  The  yell  rose 
again,  became  a  scream  of  agony. 

"Lemme  loose!"  shrieked  the  man  on  top.  "My 
Gawd,  you're  killin'  me!" 

Dave  had  not  the  least  idea  what  was  disturbing 
Miller's  peace  of  mind,  but  whatever  it  was  moved  to 
his  advantage.  He  clamped  tighter,  working  his  heels 
into  another  secure  position.  The  big  man  bellowed 
with  pain.  "Take  him  off!  Take  him  off!"  he  implored 
in  shrill  crescendo. 

"What's  all  this?"  demanded  an  imperious  voice. 

Miller  was  torn  howling  from  the  arms  and  legs  that 
bound  him  and  Dave  found  himself  jerked  roughly  to 
his  feet.  The  big  rawboned  foreman  was  glaring  at  him 
above  his  large  hook  nose.  The  trail  boss  had  been  out 
at  the  remuda  with  the  jingler  when  the  trouble  began. 
He  had  arrived  in  time  to  rescue  his  fat  friend. 

"What's  eatin'  you,  Sanders?"  he  demanded  curtly. 

"He  jumped  George!"  yelped  Miller. 


20  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Breathing  hard,  Dave  faced  his  foe  warily.  He  was 
in  a  better  strategic  position  than  he  had  been,  for  he 
had  pulled  the  revolver  of  the  fat  itian  from  its  holster 
just  as  they  were  dragged  apart.  It  was  in  his  right  hand 
now,  pressed  close  to  his  hip,  ready  for  instant  use  if 
need  be.  He  could  see  without  looking  that  Doble 
was  still  struggling  ineffectively  in  the  grip  of  Russell. 

"Dave  stumbled  and  spilt  some  coffee  on  George; 
then  George  he  tried  to  gun  him.  Miller  mixed* in  then," 
explained  Hart. 

The  foreman  glared.  "None  of  this  stuff  while  you're 
on  the  trail  with  my  outfit.  Get  that,  Sanders?  I  won't 
have  it." 

"Dave  he  couldn't  hardly  he'p  hisse'f,"  Buck 
Byington  broke  in.  "They  was  runnin'  on  him  consid- 
erable, Dug." 

"I  ain't  askin'  for  excuses.  I'm  tellin'  you  boys 
what's  what,"  retorted  the  road  boss.  "Sanders,  give 
him  his  gun." 

The  cowpuncher  took  a  step  backward.  He  had  no 
intention  of  handing  a  loaded  gun  to  Miller  while  the 
gambler  was  in  his  present  frame  of  mind.  That  might 
be  equivalent  to  suicide.  He  broke  the  revolver,  turned 
the  cylinder,  and  shook  out  the  cartridges.  The  empty 
weapon  he  tossed  on  the  ground. 

"He  ripped  me  with  his  spurs,"  Miller  said  sullenly. 
66 That's  howcome  I  had  to  turn  him  loose." 

Dave  looked  down  at  the  man's  legs.  His  trousers 
were  torn  to  shreds.  Blood  trickled  down  the  lacerated 
calves  where  the  spurs  had  roweled  the  flesh  cruelly. 
No  wonder  Miller  had  suddenly  lost  interest  in  the 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  21 

fight.  The  vaquero  thanked  his  lucky  stars  that  he  had 
not  taken  off  his  spurs  and  left  them  with  the  saddle. 

The  first  thing  thfkt  Dave  did  was  to  strike  straight 
for  the  wagon  where  his  roll  of  bedding  was.  He  untied 
the  rope,  flung  open  the  blankets,  and  took  from  inside 
the  forty-five  he  carried  to  shoot  rattlesnakes.  This  he 
shoved  down  between  his  shirt  and  trousers  where  it 
would  be  handy  for  use  in  case  of  need.  His  roll  he 
brought  back  with  him  as  a  justification  for  the  trip  to 
the  wagon.  He  had  no  intention  of  starting  anything. 
All  he  wanted  was  not  to  be  caught  at  a  disadvantage  a 
second  time. 

Miller  and  the  two  Dobles  were  standing  a  little  way 
apart  talking  together  in  low  tones.  The  fat  man,  his 
foot  on  the  spoke  of  a  wagon  wheel,  was  tying  up  one 
of  his  bleeding  calves  with  a  bandanna  handkerchief. 
Dave  gathered  that  his  contribution  to  the  conversation 
consisted  mainly  of  fervent  and  almost  tearful  profanity. 

The  brothers  appeared  to  be  debating  some  point 
with  heat.  George  insisted,  and  the  foreman  gave  up 
with  a  lift  of  his  big  shoulders. 

"Have  it  yore  own  way.  I  hate  to  have  you  leave  us 
after  I  tell  you  there'll  be  no  more  trouble,  but  if  that's 
how  you  feel  about  it  I  got  nothin'  to  say.  What  I  want 
understood  is  this"  —  Dug  Doble  raised  his  voice  for 
all  to  hear  —  "that  I'm  boss  of  this  outfit  and  won't 
stand  for  any  rough  stuff.  If  the  boys,  or  any  one  of 
'em,  can't  lose  their  money  without  bellyachin',  they 
can  get  their  time  pronto." 

The  two  gamblers  packed  their  race-horse,  saddled, 
and  rode  away  without  a  word  to  any  of  the  range- 


22  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

riders.  The  men  round  the  fire  gave  no  sign  that  they 
knew  the  confidence  men  were  on  the  map  until  after 
they  had  gone.  Then  tongues  began  to  wag,  the  fore- 
man having  gone  to  the  edge  of  the  camp  with  them. 

"  Well,  my  feelin's  ain't  hurt  one  liT  bit  because  they 
won't  play  with  us  no  more,"  Steve  Russell  said,  smil- 
ing broadly. 

"Can  you  blame  that  fat  guy  for  not  wantin'  to  play 
with  Dave  here?"  asked  Hart,  and  he  beamed  at  the 
memory  of  what  he  had  seen.  "Son,  you  ce'tainly  gave 
him  one  surprise  party  when  yore  rowels  dug  in." 

"Wonder  to  me  he  didn't  stampede  the  cows,  way 
he  hollered,"  grinned  a  third.  "I  don't  grudge  him  my 
ten  plunks.  Not  none.  Dave  he  give  me  my  money's 
worth  that  last  round." 

"I  had  a  little  luck,"  admitted  Dave  modestly. 

"Betcha,"  agreed  Steve.  "I  was  just  startin' -over  to 
haul  the  fat  guy  off  Dave  when  he  began  bleatin'  for  us 
to  come  help  him  turn  loose  the  bear.  I  kinda  took  my 
time  then." 

"Onct  I  went  to  a  play  called  'All's  Well  That  Ends 
Well,'"  said  Byington  reminiscently.  "At  the  Tabor 
Grand  the-a-ter,  in  Denver." 

"Did  it  tell  how  a  freckled  cow-punch  rode  a  fat  tin- 
horn on  his  spurs?"  asked  Hart. 

"Bet  he  wears  stovepipes  on  his  laigs  next  time  he 
mixes  it  with  Dave,"  suggested  one  coffee-brown  youth. 
"Well,  looks  like  the  show's  over  for  to-night.  I'm 
gonna  roll  in."  Motion  carried  unanimously. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  PAINT  HOSS  DISAPPEARS 

WAKENED  by  the  gong,  Dave  lay  luxuriously  in  the 
warmth  of  his  blankets.  It  was  not  for  several  moments 
that  he  remembered  the  fight  or  the  circumstances  lead- 
ing to  it.  The  grin  that  lit  his  boyish  face  at  thought  of 
its  unexpected  conclusion  was  a  fleeting  one,  for  he  dis- 
covered that  it  hurt  his  face  to  smile.  Briskly  he  rose, 
and  grunted  "Ouch!"  His  sides  were  sore  from  the  rib 
squeezing  of  Miller's  powerful  arms. 

Byington  walked  out  to  the  remuda  with  him. 
"How's  the  man-tamer  this  glad  mo'nin'?"  he  asked  of 
Dave. 

"Fine  and  dandy,  old  lizard." 

"  You  sure  got  the  dead  wood  on  him  when  yore  spurs 
got  into  action.  A  man's  like  a  watermelon.  You 
cayn't  tell  how  good  he  is  till  you  thump  him.  Miller  is 
right  biggity,  and  they  say  he's  sudden  death  with  a 
gun.  But  when  it  come  down  to  cases  he  had  n't  the 
guts  to  go  through  and  stand  the  gaff." 

"He's  been  livin'  soft  too  long,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"No,  sir.  He  just  did  n't  have  the  sand  in  his  craw 
to  hang  on  and  finish  you  off  whilst  you  was  rippin'  up 
his  laigs." 

Dave  roped  his  mount  and  rode  out  to  meet  Chiquito. 
The  pinto  was  an  aristocrat  in  his  way.  He  preferred  to 
choose  his  company,  was  a  little  disdainful  of  the  cow- 
pony  that  had  no  accomplishments.  Usually  he  grazed 


24  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

a  short  distance  from  the  remuda,  together  with  one  of 
Bob  Hart's  string.  The  two  ponies  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  same  bunch. 

This  morning  Dave's  whistle  brought  no  nicker  of 
joy,  no  thud  of  hoofs  galloping  out  of  the  darkness  to 
him.  He  rode  deeper  into  the  desert.  No  answer  came 
to  his  calls.  At  a  canter  he  cut  across  the  plain  to  the 
wrangler.  That  young  man  had  seen  nothing  of 
Chiquito  since  the  evening  before,  but  this  was  not  at 
all  unusual. 

The  cowpuncher  returned  to  camp  for  breakfast  and 
got  permission  of  the  foreman  to  look  for  the  missing 
horses. 

Beyond  the  flats  was  a  country  creased  with  draws 
and  dry  arroyos.  From  one  to  another  of  these  Dave 
went  without  finding  a  trace  of  the  animals.  All  day  he 
pushed  through  cactus  and  mesquite  heavy  with  gray 
dust.  In  the  late  afternoon  he  gave  up  for  the  time  and 
struck  back  to  the  flats.  It  was  possible  that  the  lost 
broncos  had  rejoined  the  remuda  of  their  own  accord 
or  had  been  found  by  some  of  the  riders  gathering  up 
strays. 

Dave  struck  the  herd  trail  and  followed  it  toward 
the  new  camp.  A  horseman  came  out  of  the  golden 
west  of  the  sunset  to  meet  him.  For  a  long  time  he  saw 
the  figure  rising  and  falling  in  the  saddle,  the  pony 
moving  in  the  even  fox-trot  of  the  cattle  country. 

The  man  was  Bob  Hart. 

"Found  'em?"  shouted  Dave  when  he  was  close 
enough  to  be  heard. 

"No,  and  we  won't  —  not  this  side  of  Malapi.  Those 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  25 

scalawags  did  n't  make  camp  last  night.  They  kep' 
travelin'.  If  you  ask  me,  they're  movin'  yet,  and 
they've  got  our  broncs  with  'em." 

This  had  already  occurred  to  Dave  as  a  possibility. 
"Any  proof?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"A-plenty.  I  been  ridin'  on  the  point  all  day.  Three- 
four  times  we  cut  trail  of  five  horses.  Two  of  the  five 
are  bein'  ridden.  My  Four-Bits  hoss  has  got  a  broken 
front  hoof.  So  has  one  of  the  five." 

"Movin'  fast,  are  they?" 

"You're  damn  whistlin'.  They're  hivin'  off  for  parts 
unknown.  Malapi  first  off,  looks  like.  They  got  friends 
there." 

"Steelman  and  his  outfit  will  protect  them  while  they 
hunt  cover  and  make  a  getaway.  Miller  mentioned 
Denver  before  the  race  —  said  he  was  figurin'  on  goin' 
there.  Maybe  - 

"He  was  probably  lyin'.  You  can't  tell.  Point  is, 
we  've  got  to  get  busy.  My  notion  is  we  'd  better  make 
a  bee-line  for  Malapi  right  away,"  proposed  Bob. 

"We'll  travel  all  night.  No  use  wastin'  any  more 
time." 

Dug  Doble  received  their  decision  sourly.  "It  don't 
tickle  me  a  heap  to  be  left  short-handed  because  you 
two  boys  have  got  an  excuse  to  get  to  town  quicker." 

Hart  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye.  "Call  it  an 
excuse  if  you  want  to.  We  're  after  a  pair  of  shorthorn 
crooks  that  stole  our  horses." 

The  foreman  flushed  angrily.  "Don't  come  belly- 
achin'  to  me  about  yore  broomtails.  I  ain't  got  'em." 

"We know  who's  got  'em,"  said  Dave  evenly.  "What 


26  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

we  want  is  a  wage  check  so  as  we  can  cash  it  at 
Malapi." 

"  You  don't  get  it,"  returned  the  big  foreman  bluntly. 
"We  pay  off  when  we  reach  the  end  of  the  drive." 

"I  notice  you  paid  yore  brother  and  Miller  when  we 
gave  an  order  for  it,"  Hart  retorted  with  heat. 

"A  different  proposition.  They  had  n't  signed  up  for 
this  drive  like  you  boys  did.  You'll  get  what's  comin' 
to  you  when  I  pay  off  the  others.  You'll  not  get  it 
before." 

The  two  riders  retired  sulkily.  They  felt  it  was  not 
fair,  but  on  the  trail  the  foreman  is  an  autocrat.  From 
the  other  riders  they  borrowed  a  few  dollars  and  gave 
in  exchange  orders  on  their  pay  checks. 

Within  an  hour  they  were  on  the  road.  Fresh  horses 
had  been  roped  from  the  remuda  and  were  carrying 
them  at  an  even  Spanish  jog-trot  through  the  night. 
The  stars  came  out,  clear  and  steady  above  a  ghostly 
world  at  sleep.  The  desert  w^as  a  place  of  mystery,  of 
vast  space  peopled  by  strange  and  misty  shapes. 

The  plain  stretched  vaguely  before  them.  Far  away 
was  the  thin  outline  of  the  range  which  enclosed  the 
valley.  The  riders  held  their  course  by  means  of  that 
trained  sixth  sense  of  direction  their  occupation  had 
developed. 

They  spoke  little.  Once  a  coyote  howled  dismally 
from  the  edge  of  the  mesa.  For  the  most  part  there  was 
no  sound  except  the  chuffing  of  the  horses'  movements 
and  the  occasional  ring  of  a  hoof  on  the  baked  ground. 

The  gray  dawn,  sifting  into  the  sky,  found  them  still 
traveling.  The  mountains  came  closer,  grew  more 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  27 

definite.  The  desert  flamed  again,  dry,  lifeless,  torrid 
beneath  a  sky  of  turquoise.  Dust  eddies  whirled  in 
inverted  cones,  wind  devils  playing  in  spirals  across 
the  sand.  Tablelands,  mesas,  wide  plains,  desolate  lava 
stretches.  Each  in  turn  was  traversed  by  these  lean, 
grim,  bronzed  riders. 

They  reached  the  foothills  and  left  behind  the  desert 
shimmering  in  the  dancing  heat.  In  a  deep  gorge,  where 
the  hill  creases  gave  them  shade,  the  punchers  threw 
off  the  trail,  unsaddled,  hobbled  their  horses,  and  stole 
a  few  hours'  sleep. 

In  the  late  afternoon  they  rode  back  to  the  trail 
through  a  draw,  the  ponies  wading  fetlock  deep  in 
yellow,  red,  blue,  and  purple  flowers.  The  mountains 
across  the  valley  looked  in  the  dry  heat  as  though  made 
of  papier-mache.  Closer  at  hand  the  undulations  of  sand 
hills  stretched  toward  the  pass  for  which  they  were 
making. 

A  mule  deer  started  out  of  a  dry  wash  and  fled  into 
the  sunset  light.  The  long,  stratified  faces  of  rock 
escarpments  caught  the  glow  of  the  sliding  sun  and 
became  battlemented  towers  of  ancient  story. 

The  riders  climbed  steadily  now,  no  longer  engulfed 
in  the  ground  swell  of  land  waves.  They  breathed  an 
air  like  wine,  strong,  pure,  bracing.  Presently  their 
way  led  them  into  a  hill  pocket,  which  ran  into  a  gorge 
of  pifions  stretching  toward  Gunsight  Pass. 

The  stars  were  out  again  when  they  looked  down  from 
the  other  side  of  the  pass  upon  the  lights  of  Malapi. 


CHAPTER  V 
SUPPER  AT  DELMONICO'S  INTERRUPTED 

THE  two  D  Bar  Lazy  R  punchers  ate  supper  at  Del- 
monico's.  The  restaurant  was  owned  by  Wong  Chung. 
A  Cantonese  celestial  did  the  cooking  and  another 
waited  on  table.  The  price  of  a  meal  was  twenty-five 
cents,  regardless  of  what  one  ordered. 

Hop  Lee,  the  waiter,  grinned  at  the  frolicsome  youths 
with  the  serenity  of  a  world-old  wisdom. 

"Bleef  steak,  plork  chop,  lamb  chop,  hlam'neggs, 
clorn  bleef  hash,  Splanish  stew,"  he  chanted,  reciting 
the  bill  of  fare. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Bob. 

The  waiter  said  his  piece  again. 

"Listens  good  to  me,"  agreed  Dave.  "Lead  it  to 
us." 

''You  takee  two  —  bleef  steak  and  hlam'neggs 
mebbe,"  suggested  Hop  helpfully. 

"Tha's  right.  Two  orders  of  everything  on  the  me- 
an-you,  Charlie." 

Hop  did  not  argue  with  them.  He  never  argued  with 
a  customer.  If  they  stormed  at  him  he  took  refuge  in  a 
suddenly  acquired  lack  of  understanding  of  English. 
If  they  called  him  Charlie  or  John  or  One  Lung,  he 
accepted  the  name  cheerfully  and  laid  it  to  a  racial 
mental  deficiency  of  the  'melicans.  Now  he  decided  to 
make  a  selection  himself. 

"Vely  well.   Bleef  steak  and  hlam'neggs." 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  29 

"  Fried  potatoes  done  brown,  John." 

"Flied  plotatoes.   Tea  or  cloffee?" 

' 'Coffee,"  decided  Dave  for  both  of  them.  "Warm 
nine." 

"And  custard  pie,"  added  Bob.  "Made  from  this 
ear's  crop." 

"Aigs  sunny  side  up,"  directed  his  friend. 

"Fry  mine  one  on  one  side  and  one  on  the  other," 
lart  continued  facetiously. 

"Vely  well."  Hop  Lee's  impassive  face  betrayed  no 
•erplexity  as  he  departed.  In  the  course  of  a  season  he 
raited  on  hundreds  of  wild  men  from  the  hills,  drunk 
,nd  sober. 

Dave  helped  himself  to  bread  from  a  plate  stacked 
ugh  with  thick  slices.  He  buttered  it  and  began  to  eat. 
lart  did  the  same.  At  Delmonico's  nobody  ever  waited 
ill  the  meal  was  served.  Just  about  to  attack  a  second 
lice,  Dave  stopped  to  stare  at  his  companion.  Hart 
VSLS  looking  past  his  shoulder  with  alert  intentness. 
)ave  turned  his  head.  Two  men,  leaving  the  restau- 
ant,  were  paying  the  cashier. 

"They  just  stepped  outa  that  booth  to  the  right," 
whispered  Bob. 

The  men  were  George  Doble  and  a  cowpuncher  known 
LS  Shorty,  a  broad,  heavy-set  little  man  who  worked 
or  Bradley  Steelman,  owner  of  the  Rocking  Horse 
lanch,  what  time  he  was  not  engaged  on  nefarious  busi- 
less  of  his  own.  He  was  wearing  a  Chihuahua  hat  and 
eather  chaps  with  silver  conchas. 

At*this  moment  Hop  Lee  arrived  with  dinner. 

Dave  sighed  as  he  grinned  at  his  friend.  "I  need  that 


30  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

supper  in  my  system.    I  sure  do,  but  I  reckon  I  don5 
get  it." 

"You  do  not,  old  lizard,"  agreed  Hart.  "I'll  sa; 
Doble's  the  most  inconsiderate  guy  I  ever  did  trail 
Why  could  n't  he  'a'  showed  up  a  half-hour  later,  da< 
gum  his  ornery  hide?" 

They  paid  their  bill  and  passed  into  the  street.  Im 
mediately  the  sound  of  a  clear,  high  voice  arrested  thei 
attention.  It  vibrated  indignation  and  dread. 

"What  have  you  done  with  my  father?"  cam< 
sharply  to  them  on  the  wings  of  the  soft  night  wind. 

A  young  woman  was  speaking.    She  was  in  a  bug 
and  was  talking  to  two  men  on  the  sidewalk  —  the  two 
men  who  had  preceded    the  range-riders  out  of  th( 
restaurant. 

"Why,  Miss,  we  ain't  done  a  thing  to  him  —  nothin 
a-tall."  The  man  Shorty  was  speaking,  and  in  a  torn 
of  honeyed  conciliation.  It  was  quite  plain  he  did  not 
want  a  scene  on  the  street. 

"That's  a  lie."  The  voice  of  the  girl  broke  for  an 
instant  to  a  sob.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  know  you're 
Brad  Steelman's  handy  man,  that  you  do  his  meanness 
for  him  when  he  snaps  his  fingers?" 

"You  sure  do  click  yore  heels  mighty  loud,  Miss." 
Dave  caught  in  that  soft  answer  the  purr  of  malice.  He 
remembered  now  hearing  from  Buck  Byington  thai 
years  ago  Emerson  Crawford  had  rounded  up  evidence 
to  send  Shorty  to  the  penitentiary  for  rebranding 
through  a  blanket.  "I  reckon  you  come  by  it  honest. 
Em  always  acted  like  he  was  God  Almighty." 

"Where  is  he?  What's  become  of  him?"  she  cried. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  31 

"Is  yore  paw  missin'?  I'm  right  sorry  to  hear  that," 
the  cowpuncher  countered  with  suave  irony.  He  was 
eager  to  be  gone.  His  glance  followed  Doble,  who  was 
moving  slowly  down  the  street. 

The  girl's  face,  white  and  shining  in  the  moonlight, 
leaned  out  of  the  buggy  toward  the  retreating  vaquero. 
"Don't  you  dare  hurt  my  father!  Don't  you  dare!"  she 
warned.  The  words  choked  in  her  tense  throat. 

Shorty  continued  to  back  away.  "You're  excited, 
Miss.  You  go  home  an'  think  it  over  reasonable.  You  '11 
be  sorry  you  talked  this  away  to  me,"  he  said  with  unctu- 
ous virtue.  Then,  swiftly,  he  turned  and  went  straddling 
down  the  walk,  his  spurs  jingling  music  as  he  moved. 

Quickly  Dave  gave  directions  to  his  friend.  "Duck 
back  into  the  restaurant,  Bob.  Get  a  pocketful  of  dry 
rice  from  the  Chink.  Trail  those  birds  to  their  nest  and 
find  where  they  roost.  Then  stick  around  like  a  burr. 
Scatter  rice  behind  you,  and  I'll  drift  along  later. 
First  off,  I  got  to  stay  and  talk  with  Miss  Joyce.  And, 
say,  take  along  a  rope.  Might  need  it." 

A  moment  later  Hart  was  in  the  restaurant  com- 
mandeering rice  and  Sanders  was  lifting  his  dusty  hat 
to  the  young  woman  in  the  buggy. 

"If  I  can  he'p  you  any,  Miss  Joyce,"  he  said. 

Beneath  dark  and  delicate  brows  she  frowned  at  him. 
"Who  are  you?" 

* '  Dave  Sanders  my  name  is.  I  reckon  you  never  heard 
tell  of  me.  I  punch  cows  for  yore  father." 

Her  luminous,  hazel-brown  eyes  steadied  in  his,  read 
the  honesty  of  his  simple,  boyish  heart. 

"You  heard  what  I  said  to  that  man?" 


32  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Part  of  it." 

"Well,  it's  true.    I  know  it  is,  but  I  can't  prove  it." 

Hart,  moving  swiftly  down  the  street,  waved  a  hand 
at  his  friend  as  he  passed.  Without  turning  his  attention 
from  Joyce  Crawford,  Dave  acknowledged  the  signal. 

"How  do  you  know  it?" 

"Steelman's  men  have  been  watching  our  house. 
They  were  hanging  around  at  different  times  day  before 
yesterday.  This  man  Shorty  was  one." 

"Any  special  reason  for  the  feud  to  break  out  right 
now?" 

"Father  was  going  to  prove  up  on  a  claim  this  week 
—  the  one  that  takes  in  the  Tularosa  water-holes.  You 
know  the  trouble  they  've  had  about  it  —  how  they  kept 
breaking  our  fences  to  water  their  sheep  and  cattle. 
Don't  you  think  maybe  they  're  trying  to  keep  him  from 
proving  up?" 

"Maybeso.   When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

Her  lip  trembled.  "Night  before  last.  After  supper 
he  started  for  the  Cattleman's  Club,  but  he  never  got 
there." 

"Sure  he  was  n't  called  out  to  one  of  the  ranches  un- 
expected?" 

"I  sent  out  to  make  sure.  He  has  n't  been  seen  there." 

"Looks  like  some  of  Brad  Steelman's  smooth  work," 
admitted  Dave.  "If  he  could  work  yore  father  to  sign 
a  relinquishment  — 

Fire  flickered  in  her  eye.  "He'd  ought  to  know  Dad 
better." 

"Tha's  right  too.  But  Brad  needs  them  water-holes 
in  his  business  bad.  Without  'em  he  loses  the  whole 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  33 

Round  Top  range.    He  might  take  a  crack  at  turning 
the  screws  on  yore  father." 

"  You  don't  think  — ?"  She  stopped,  to  fight  back  a 
sob  that  filled  her  soft  throat. 

Dave  was  not  sure  what  he  thought,  but  he  answered 
cheerfully  and  instantly.  "No,  I  don't  reckon  they've 
dry-gulched  him  or  anything.  Emerson  Crawford  is 
one  sure-enough  husky  citizen.  He  could  n't  either  be 
shot  or  rough-housed  in  town  without  some  one  hearin' 
the  noise.  What's  more,  it  would  n't  be  their  play  to 
injure  him,  but  to  force  a  relinquishment." 

"That's  true.  You  believe  that,  don't  you?"  Joyce 
cried  eagerly. 

"Sure  I  do."  And  Dave  discovered  that  his  argument 
or  his  hopes  had  for  the  moment  convinced  him.  "Now 
the  question  is,  what's  to  be  done?" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  and  the  tremor  of  the  lips  told 
him  that  she  depended  upon  him  to  work  out  the  prob- 
lem. His  heart  swelled  with  glad  pride  at  the  thought. 

"That  man  who  jus'  passed  is  my  friend,"  he  told  her. 
"He's  trailin'  that  duck  Shorty.  Like  as  not  we'll  find 
out  what's  stirrin'." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  the  girl  said,  vivid  lips  parted  in 
anticipation. 

"No,  you  go  home.  This  is  a  man's  job.  Soon  as  I 
find  out  anything  I'll  let  you  know." 

''You'll  come,  no  matter  what  time  o'  night  it  is," 
she  pleaded. 

"Yes,"  he  promised. 

Her  firm  little  hand  rested  a  moment  in  his  brown 
palm.  "I'm  depending  on  you,"  she  murmured  in  a 
whisper  lifted  to  a  low  wail  by  a  stress  of  emotion. 


CHAPTER  VI 
BY  WAY  OF  A  WINDOW 

THE  trail  of  rice  led  down  Mission  Street,  turned  at 
Junipero,  crossed  into  an  alley,  and  trickled  along  a 
dusty  road  to  the  outskirts  of  the  frontier  town. 

The  responsibility  Joyce  had  put  upon  him  uplifted 
Dave.  He  had  followed  the  horse-race  gamblers  to  town 
on  a  purely  selfish  undertaking.  But  he  had  been  caught 
in  a  cross-current  of  fate  and  was  being  swept  into  dan- 
gerous waters  for  the  sake  of  another. 

Doble  and  Miller  were  small  fish  in  the  swirl  of  this 
more  desperate  venture.  He  knew  Brad  Steelman  by 
sight  and  by  reputation.  The  man's  coffee-brown, 
hatchet  face,  his  restless,  black  eyes,  the  high,  narrow 
shoulders,  the  slope  of  nose  and  chin,  combined  some- 
how to  give  him  the  look  of  a  wily  and  predacious  wolf. 
The  boy  had  never  met  any  one  who  so  impressed  him 
with  a  sense  of  ruthless  rapacity.  He  was  audacious  and 
deadly  in  attack,  but  always  he  covered  his  tracks  cun- 
ningly. Suspected  of  many  crimes,  he  had  been  proved 
guilty  of  none.  It  was  a  safe  bet  that  now  he  had  a  line 
of  retreat  worked  out  in  case  his  plans  went  awry. 

A  soft,  low  whistle  stayed  his  feet.  From  behind  a 
greasewood  bush  Bob  rose  and  beckoned  him.  Dave 
tiptoed  to  him.  Both  of  them  crouched  behind  cover 
while  they  whispered. 

"The  'dobe  house  over  to  the  right,"  said  Bob.  "I 
been  up  and  tried  to  look  in,  but  they  got  curtains  drawn. 


GUNSIGKT  PASS  35 

I  would  Ve  like  to  ' ve  seen  how  many  gents  are  present. 
Nothin'  doin'.  It's  a  strictly  private  party." 

Dave  told  him  what  he  had  learned  from  the  daughter 
of  Emerson  Crawford. 

"Might  make  a  gather  of  boys  and  raid  the  joint," 
suggested  Hart. 

"Bad  medicine,  Bob.  Our  work's  got  to  be  smoother 
than  that.  How  do  we  know  they  got  the  old  man  a 
prisoner  there?  What  excuse  we  got  for  attacktin'  a 
peaceable  house?  A  friend  of  mine's  brother  onct  got 
shot  up  makin'  a  similar  mistake.  Maybe  Crawford's 
there.  Maybe  he  ain't.  Say  he  is.  All  right.  There's 
some  gun-play  back  and  forth  like  as  not.  A  b'ilin'  of 
men  pour  outa  the  place.  We  go  in  and  find  the  old  man 
with  a  bullet  right  spang  through  his  forehead.  Well, 
ain't  that  too  bad !  In  the  rookus  his  own  punchers  must 
'a'  gunned  him  accidental.  How  would  that  story  listen 
in  court?" 

"It  would  n't  listen  good  to  me.  Howcome  Crawford 
to  be  a  prisoner  there,  I'd  want  to  know." 

"Sure  you  would,  and  Steelman  would  have  witnesses 
a-plenty  to  swear  the  old  man  had  just  drapped  in  to 
see  if  they  could  n't  talk  tilings  over  and  make  a  settle- 
ment of  their  troubles." 

"All  right.  What's  yore  programme,  then?"  asked 
Bob. 

"Darned  if  I  know.  Say  we  scout  the  ground  over 
first." 

They  made  a  wide  circuit  and  approached  the  house 
from  the  rear,  worming  their  way  through  the  Indian 
grass  toward  the  back  door.  Dave  crept  forward  and 


36  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

tried  the  door.  It  was  locked.  The  window  was  latched 
and  the  blind  lowered.  He  drew  back  and  rejoined  his 
companion. 

"No  chance  there,"  he  whispered. 

"How  about  the  roof?"  asked  Hart. 

It  was  an  eight-roomed  house.  From  the  roof  two 
dormers  jutted.  No  light  issued  from  either  of  them. 

Dave's  eyes  lit. 

"What's  the  matter  with  takin'  a  whirl  at  it?"  his 
partner  continued.  "You're  tophand  with  a  rope." 

"Suits  me  fine." 

The  young  puncher  arranged  the  coils  carefully  and 
whirled  the  loop  around  his  head  to  get  the  feel  of  the 
throw.  It  would  not  do  to  miss  the  first  cast  and  let 
the  rope  fall  dragging  down  the  roof.  Some  one  might 
hear  and  come  out  to  investigate. 

The  rope  snaked  forward  and  up,  settled  gracefully  over 
the  chimney,  and  tightened  round  it  close  to  the  shingles. 

"Good  enough.  Now  me  for  the  climb,"  murmured 
Hart. 

"Don't  pull  yore  picket-pin,  Bob.   Me  first." 

"All  right.  We  ain't  no  time  to  debate.  Shag  up,  old 
scout." 

Dave  slipped  off  his  high-heeled  boots  and  went  up 
hand  over  hand,  using  his  feet  against  the  rough  adobe 
walls  to  help  in  the  ascent.  When  he  came  to  the  eaves 
he  threw  a  leg  up  and  clambered  to  the  roof.  In  another 
moment  he  was  huddled  against  the  chimney  waiting 
for  his  companion. 

As  soon  as  Hart  had  joined  him  he  pulled  up  the  rope 
and  wound  it  round  the  chimney. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  37 

"You  stay  here  while  I  see  what's  doin',"  Dave  pro- 
posed. 

"I  never  did  see  such  a  fellow  for  hoggin'  all  the  fun," 
objected  Bob.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  leave  me  trail  along? " 

"Got  to  play  a  lone  hand  till  we  find  out  where  we're 
at,  Bob.  Doubles  the  chances  of  being  bumped  into  if 
we  both  go/' 

"Then  you  roost  on  the  roof  and  lemme  look  the  range 
over  for  the  old  man." 

"Did  n't  Miss  Joyce  tell  me  to  find  her  paw?  What's 
eatin'  you,  pard?" 

"You  pore  plugged  nickel!"  derided  Hart.  "Think 
she  picked  you  special  for  this  job,  do  you?" 

"Be  reasonable,  Bob,"  pleaded  Dave. 

His  friend  gave  way.  "Cut  yore  stick,  then.  Holler 
for  me  when  I'm  wanted." 

Dave  moved  down  the  roof  to  the  nearest  dormer. 
The  house,  he  judged,  had  originally  belonged  to  a  well- 
to-do  Mexican  family  and  had  later  been  rebuilt  upon 
American  ideas.  The  thick  adobe  walls  had  come  down 
from  the  earlier  owners,  but  the  roof  had  been  put  on 
as  a  substitute  for  the  flat  one  of  its  first  incarnation. 

The  range-rider  was  wearing  plain  shiny  leather  chaps 
with  a  gun  in  an  open  holster  tied  at  the  bottom  to  facili- 
tate quick  action.  He  drew  out  the  revolver,  tested  it 
noiselessly,  and  restored  it  carefully  to  its  place.  If  he 
needed  the  six-shooter  at  all,  he  would  need  it  badly 
and  suddenly. 

Gingerly  he  tested  the  window  of  the  dormer,  working 
at  it  from  the  side  so  that  his  body  would  not  be  visible 
to  anybody  who  happened  to  be  watching  from  within. 


38  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Apparently  it  was  latched.  He  crept  across  the  roof  to 
the  other  dormer. 

It  was  a  casement  "window,  and  at  the  touch  of  the 
hand  it  gave  wTay.  The  heart  of  the  cowpuncher  beat 
fast  with  excitement.  In  the  shadowy  darkness  of  that 
room  death  might  be  lurking,  its  hand  already  out- 
stretched toward  him.  He  peered  in,  accustoming  his 
eyes  to  the  blackness.  A  prickling  of  the  skin  ran  over 
him.  The  tiny  cold  feet  of  mice  pattered  up  and  down 
his  spine.  For  he  knew  that,  though  he  could  not  yet 
make  out  the  objects  inside  the  room,  his  face  must  be 
like  a  framed  portrait  to  anybody  there. 

He  made  out  presently  that  it  was  a  bedroom  with 
sloping  ceiling.  A  bunk  with  blankets  thrown  back  just 
as  the  sleeper  had  left  them  filled  one  side  of  the  cham- 
ber. There  were  two  chairs,  a  washstand,  a  six-inch  by 
ten  looking-glass,  and  a  chromo  or  two  on  the  wall.  A 
sawed-off  shotgun  was  standing  in  a  corner.  Here  and 
there  were  scattered  soiled  clothing  and  stained  boots. 
The  door  was  ajar,  but  nobody  was  in  the  room. 

Dave  eased  himself  over  the  sill  and  waited  for  a 
moment  while  he  listened,  the  revolver  in  his  hand. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  a  faint  murmur  of 
voices,  but  he  was  not  sure.  He  moved  across  the  bare 
plank  floor*  slid  through  the  door,  and  again  stopped  to 
take  ^tock  of  his  surroundings. 

He  was  at  the  head  of  a  stairway  which  ran  down  to 
the  .first  floor  and  lost  itself  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall. 
Leaning  over  the  banister,  he  listened  intently  for  any 
sign  of  life  below.  He  was  sure  now  that  he  heard  the 
sound  of  low  voices  behind  a  closed  door. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  39 

The  cowpuncher  hesitated.  Should  he  stop  to  explore 
the  upper  story?  Or  should  he  go  down  at  once  and  try 
to  find  out  what  those  voices  might  tell  him?  It  might 
be  that  time  was  of  the  essence  of  his  contract  to  dis- 
cover what  had  become  of  Emerson  Crawford.  He  de- 
cided to  look  for  his  information  on  the  first  floor. 

Never  before  had  Dave  noticed  that  stairs  creaked 
and  groaned  so  loudly  beneath  the  pressure  of  a  soft 
footstep.  They  seemed  to  shout  his  approach,  though 
he  took  every  step  with  elaborate  precautions.  A  door 
slammed  somewhere,  and  his  heart  jumped  at  the  sound 
of  it.  He  did  not  hide  the  truth  from  himself.  If  Steel- 
man  or  his  men  found  him  here  looking  for  Crawford 
he  would  never  leave  the  house  alive.  His  foot  left  the 
last  tread  and  found  the  uncarpeted  floor.  He  crept, 
hand  outstretched,  toward  the  door  behind  which  he 
heard  men  talking.  As  he  moved  forward  his  stomach 
muscles  tightened.  At  any  moment  some  one  might 
come  out  of  the  room  and  walk  into  him. 

He  put  his  eye  to  the  keyhole,  and  through  it  saw  a 
narrow  segment  of  the  room.  Ad  Miller  was  sitting 
a-straddle  a  chair,  his  elbows  on  the  back.  Another  man, 
one  not  visible  to  the  cowpuncher,  was  announcing  a 
decision  and  giving  an  order. 

"Hook  up  the  horses,  Shorty.  He's  got  his  neck 
bowed  and  he  won't  sign.  All  right.  I'll  get  the  durn  fool 
up  in  the  hills  and  show  him  whether  he  will  or  won't." 

"I  could  'a'  told  you  he  had  sand  in  his  craw." 
Shorty  was  speaking.  He  too  was  beyond  the  range  of 
Dave's  vision.  "Em  Crawford  won't  sign  unless  he's  a 
mind  to." 


40  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Take  my  advice,  Brad.  Collect  the  kid,  an'  you'll 
sure  have  Em  hogtied.  He  sets  the  world  an'  all  by  her. 
Y'betcha  he'll  talk  turkey  then,"  predicted  Miller. 

"Are  we  fightin'  kids?"  the  squat  puncher  wanted  to 
know. 

"Did  I  ask  your  advice,  Shorty?"  inquired  Steelman 
acidly. 

The  range-rider  grumbled  an  indistinct  answer.  Dave 
did  not  make  out  the  words,  and  his  interest  in  the 
conversation  abruptly  ceased. 

For  from  upstairs  there  came  the  sudden  sounds  of 
trampling  feet,  of  bodies  thrashing  to  and  fro  in  conflict. 
A  revolver  shot  barked  itifrsinister  menace. 

Dave  rose  to  go.  At  the  same  time  the  door  in  front 
of  him  was  jerked  open.  He  pushed  his  forty-five  into 
Miller's  fat  ribs. 

"What's  yore  hurry?  Stick  up  yore  hands  —  stick 
'em  up!" 

The  boy  was  backing  along  the  passage  as  he  spoke. 
He  reached  the  newel  post  in  that  second  while  Miller 
was  being  flung  aside  by  an  eruption  of  men  from  the 
room.  Like  a  frightened  rabbit  Dave  leaped  for  the 
stairs,  taking  them  three  at  a  time.  Halfway  up  he  col- 
lided with  a  man  flying  down.  They  came  together  with 
the  heavy  impact  of  fast-moving  bodies.  The  two  col- 
lapsed and  rolled  down,  one  over  the  other. 

Sanders  rose  like  a  rubber  ball.  The  other  man  lay 
still.  He  had  been  put  out  cold.  Dave's  head  had 
struck  him  in  the  solar  plexus  and  knocked  the  breath 
out  of  him.  The  young  cowpuncher  found  himself  the 
active  center  of  a  cyclone.  His  own  revolver  was  gone. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  41 

He  grappled  with  a  man,  seizing  him  by  the  wrist  to 
prevent  the  use  of  a  long-barreled  Colt's.  The  trigger 
fell,  a  bullet  flying  through  the  ceiling. 

Other  men  pressed  about  him,  trying  to  reach  him 
with  their  fists  and  to  strike  him  with  their  weapons. 
Their  high  heels  crushed  cruelly  the  flesh  of  his  stock- 
inged feet.  The  darkness  befriended  Dave.  In  the 
massed  melee  they  dared  not  shoot  for  fear  of  hitting 
the  wrong  mark.  Nor  could  they  always  be  sure  which 
shifting  figure  was  the  enemy. 

Dave  clung  close  to  the  man  he  had  seized,  using  him 
as  a  shield  against  the  others.  The  pack  swayed  down 
the  hall  into  the  wedge  of  light  thrown  by  the  lamp  in 
the  room. 

Across  the  head  of  the  man  next  him  Shorty  reached 
and  raised  his  arm.  Dave  saw  the  blue  barrel  of  the 
revolver  sweeping  down,  but  could  not  free  a  hand  to 
protect  himself.  A  jagged  pain  shot  through  his  head. 
The  power  went  out  of  his  legs.  He  sagged  at  the  hinges 
of  his  knees.  He  stumbled  and  went  down.  Heavy 
boots  kicked  at  him  where  he  lay.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  bolts  of  lightning  were  zigzagging  through  him. 

The  pain  ceased  and  he  floated  away  into  a  sea  of 
space. 


CHAPTER  VII 
BOB  HART  TAKES  A  HAND 

BOB  HART  waited  till  his  friend  had  disappeared  into 
the  house  before  he  moved. 

"Thought  he'd  run  it  over  me,  so  I'd  roost  here  on 
the  roof,  did  he?  Well,  I'm  after  the  oP  horn-toad  full 
jump,"  the  puncher  murmured,  a  gay  grin  on  his  good- 
looking  face. 

He,  too,  examined  his  gun  before  he  followed  Dave 
through  the  dormer  window  and  passed  into  the  frowsy 
bedchamber.  None  of  the  details  of  it  escaped  his  cool, 
keen  gaze,  least  of  all  the  sawed-off  shotgun  in  the 
corner. 

"That  scatter  gun  might  come  handy.  Reckon  I'll 
move  it  so's  I'll  know  just  where  it's  at  when  I  need 
it,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  carried  the  gun  to  the  bed, 
where  he  covered  it  with  a  quilt. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  Bob  also  hesitated  before  pass- 
ing down.  Why  not  be  sure  of  his  line  of  communica- 
tions with  the  roof  before  going  too  far?  He  did  not 
want  to  be  in  such  a  hurry  that  his  retreat  would  be 
cut  off. 

With  as  little  noise  as  possible  Bob  explored  the  upper 
story.  The  first  room  in  which  he  found  himself  was 
empty  of  all  furniture  except  a  pair  of  broken-backed 
chairs.  One  casual  glance  was  enough  here. 

He  was  about  to  try  a  second  door  when  some  one 
spoke.  He  recognized  the  voice.  It  belonged  to  the  man 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  43 

who  wrote  his  pay  checks,  and  it  came  from  an  adjoin- 
ing room. 

"Always  knew  you  was  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  laig, 
Doble.  Never  liked  you  a  lick  in  the  road.  I  '11  say  this. 
Some  day  I'll  certainly  hang  yore  hide  up  to  dry  for 
yore  treachery." 

"No  use  to  get  on  the  peck,  Em.  It  don't  do  you  no 
good  to  make  me  sore.  Maybe  you'll  need  a  friend 
before  you're  shet  of  Brad." 

"It  relieves  my  mind  some  to  tell  you  what  a  yellow 
coyote  you  are,"  explained  the  cattleman.  ''You  got 
about  as  much  sand  as  a  brush  rabbit  and  I  'd  trust  you 
as  far  as  I  would  a  rattler,  you  damned  sidewinder." 

Bob  tried  the  door.  The  knob  turned  in  his  hand  and 
the  door  slowly  opened  inward. 

The  rattle  of  the  latch  brought  George  Doble's  sly, 
shifty  eye  round.  He  was  expecting  to  see  one  of  his 
friends  from  below.  A  stare  of  blank  astonishment  gave 
way  to  a  leaping  flicker  of  fear.  The  crook  jumped  to 
his  feet,  tugging  at  his  gun.  Before  he  could  fire,  the 
range-rider  had  closed  with  him. 

The  plunging  attack  drove  Doble  back  against  the 
table,  a  flimsy,  round-topped  affair  which  gave  way 
beneath  this  assault  upon  it.  The  two  men  went  down 
in  the  wreck.  Doble  squirmed  away  like  a  cat,  but 
before  he  could  turn  to  use  his  revolver  Bob  was  on  him 
again.  The  puncher  caught  his  right  arm,  in  time  and  in 
no  more  than  time.  The  deflected  bullet  pinged  through 
a  looking-glass  on  a  dresser  near  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Go  to  it,  son!  Grab  the  gun  and  bust  his  haid  wide 
open!"  an  excited  voice  encouraged  Hart. 


44  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

But  Doble  clung  to  his  weapon  as  a  lost  cow  does  to 
a  'dobe  water-hole  in  the  desert.  Bob  got  a  grip  on  his 
arm  and  twisted  till  he  screamed  with  pain.  He  did  a 
head  spin  and  escaped.  One  hundred  and  sixty  pounds 
of  steel-muscled  cowpuncher  landed  on  his  midriff  and 
the  six-shooter  went  clattering  away  to  a  far  corner  of 
the  room. 

Bob  dived  for  the  revolver,  Doble  for  the  door.  A 
moment,  and  Hart  had  the  gun.  But  whereas  there  had 
been  three  in  the  room  there  were  now  but  two. 

A  voice  from  the  bed  spoke  in  curt  command.  "Cut 
me  loose."  Bob  had  heard  that  voice  on  more  than  one 
round-up.  It  was  that  of  Emerson  Crawford. 

The  range-rider's  sharp  knife  cut  the  ropes  that  tied 
the  hands  and  feet  of  his  employer.  He  worked  in  the 
dark  and  it  took  time. 

"Who  are  you?  Howcome  you  here?"  demanded  the 
cattleman. 

"I'm  Bob  Hart.  It 's  quite  a  story.  Miss  Joyce  sent 
me  and  Dave  Sanders,"  answered  the  young  man,  still 
busy  with  the  ropes. 

From  below  came  the  sound  of  a  shot,  the  shuffling  of 
many  feet. 

"Must  be  him  downstairs." 

"I  reckon.   They's  a  muley  gun  in  the  hall." 

Crawford  stretched  his  cramped  muscles,  flexing  and 
reflexing  his  arms  and  legs.  "Get  it,  son.  We'll  drift 
down  and  sit  in." 

When  Bob  returned  he  found  the  big  cattleman 
examining  Doble's  revolver.  He  broke  the  shotgun  to 
make  sure  it  was  loaded. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  45 

Then,  "We'll  travel,"  he  said  coolly. 

The  battle  sounds  below  had  died  away.  From  the 
landing  they  looked  down  into  the  hall  and  saw  a  bar 
of  light  that  came  through  a  partly  open  door.  Voices 
were  lifted  in  excitement. 

"One  of  Em  Crawford's  riders,"  some  one  was  saying. 
"A  whole  passel  of  'em  must  be  round  the  place." 

Came  the  thud  of  a  boot  on  something  soft.  "Put 
the  damn  spy  outa  business,  I  say,"  broke  in  another 
angrily. 

Hart's  gorge  rose.  "Tha's  Miller,"  he  whispered  to 
his  chief.  "He's  kickin'  Dave  now  he's  down  'cause 
Dave  whaled  him  good." 

Softly  the  two  men  padded  down  the  stair  treads  and 
moved  along  the  passage. 

"Who's  that?"  demanded  Shorty,  thrusting  his  head 
into  the  hall.  "Stay  right  there  or  I'll  shoot." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  answered  the  cattleman  evenly. 
"I'm  comin'  into  that  room  to  have  a  settlement. 
There'll  be  no  shootin'  -  -  unless  I  do  it." 

His  step  did  not  falter.  He  moved  forward,  brushed 
Shorty  aside,  and  strode  into  the  midst  of  his  enemies. 

Dave  lay  on  the  floor.  His  hair  was  clotted  with  blood 
and  a  thin  stream  of  it  dripped  from  his  head.  The  men 
grouped  round  his  body  had  their  eyes  focused  on  the 
man  who  had  just  pushed  his  way  in.  All  of  them  were 
armed,  but  not  one  of  them  made  a  move  to  attack. 

For  there  is  something  about  a  strong  man  unafraid 
more  potent  than  a  company  of  troopers.  Such  a  man 
was  Emerson  Crawford  now.  His  life  might  be  hanging 
in  the  balance  of  his  enemies'  fears,  but  he  gave  no  sign 


46  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

of  uncertainty.  His  steady  gray  eyes  swept  the  circle, 
rested  on  each  worried  face,  and  fastened  on  Brad 
Steelman. 

The  two  had  been  enemies  for  years,  rivals  for  con- 
trol of  the  range  and  for  leadership  in  the  community. 
Before  that,  as  young  men,  they  had  been  candidates 
for  the  hand  of  the  girl  that  the  better  one  had  won. 
The  sheepman  was  shrewd  and  cunning,  but  he  had  no 
such  force  of  character  as  Crawford.  At  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  though  he  seethed  with  hatred,  he  quailed 
before  that  level  gaze.  Did  his  foe  have  the  house  sur- 
rounded with  his  range-riders?  Did  he  mean  to  make 
him  pay  with  his  life  for  the  thing  he  had  done? 

Steelman  laughed  uneasily.  An  option  lay  before 
him.  He  could  fight  or  he  could  throw  up  the  hand  he 
tad  dealt  himself  from  a  stacked  deck.  If  he  let  his 
enemy  walk  away  scot  free,  some  day  he  would  prob- 
ably have  to  pay  Crawford  with  interest.  His  choice 
was  a  characteristic  one. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you've  kinda  upset  my  plans,  Em. 
'Course  I  was  a-coddin'  you.  I  did  n't  aim  to  hurt  you 
none,  though  I  'd  'a'  liked  to  have  talked  you  outa  the 
water-holes." 

The  big  cattleman  ignored  this  absolutely.  "Have  a 
team  hitched  right  away.  Shorty  will  'tend  to  that. 
Bob,  tie  up  yore  friend's  haid  with  a  handkerchief." 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  Hart  thrust  his  re- 
volver back  into  its  holster.  He  was  willing  to  trust 
Crawford  to  dominate  this  group  of  lawless  foes,  every 
one  of  whom  held  some  deep  grudge  against  him.  One 
he  had  sent  to  the  penitentiary.  Another  he  had  actu- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  47 

ally  kicked  out  of  his  employ.  A  third  was  in  his  debt 
for  many  injuries  received.  Almost  any  of  them  would 
have  shot  him  in  the  back  on  a  dark  night,  but  none 
had  the  cold  nerve  to  meet  him  in  the  open.  For  even 
in  a  land  which  bred  men  there  were  few  to  match 
Emerson  Crawford. 

Shorty  looked  at  Steelman.  "I'm  waitin',  Brad,"  he 
said. 

The  sheepman  nodded  sullenly.  "You  done  heard 
your  orders,  Shorty." 

The  ex-convict  reached  for  his  steeple  hat,  thrust  his 
revolver  back  into  its  holster,  and  went  jingling  from 
the  room.  He  looked  insolently  at  Crawford  as  he 
passed. 

"Different  here.  If  it  was  my  say-so  I 'd  go  through." 

Hart  administered  first  aid  to  his  friend.  "  I  'm  servin' 
notice,  Miller,  that  some  day  I'll  bust  you  wide  and 
handsome  for  this,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  the  fat 
gambler.  "You  have  give  Dave  a  raw  deal,  and  you'll 
not  get  away  with  it." 

"I  pack  a  gun.  Come  a-shootin'  when  you're  ready," 
retorted  Miller. 

"Tha's  liable  to  be  right  soon,  you  damn  horsethief. 
We've  rid  'most  a  hundred  miles  to  have  a  liT  talk  with 
you  and  yore  pardner  there." 

"Shoutin'  about  that  race  yet,  are  you?  If  I  was  n't 
a  better  loser  than  you  - 

"Don't  bluff,  Miller.  You  know  why  we  trailed  you." 

Doble  edged  into  the  talk.  He  was  still  short  of  wind, 
but  to  his  thick  wits  a  denial  seemed  necessary.  "We 
ain't  got  yore  broncs." 


48  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Who  mentioned  our  b  rones?"  Hart  demanded 
swiftly. 

"Called  Ad  a  horsethief,  did  n't  you?'5 

"So  he  is.  You,  too.  You've  got  our  ponies.  Not  in 
yore  vest  pockets,  but  hid  out  in  the  brush  somewheres. 
I'm  servin'  notice  right  now  that  Dave  and  me  have 
come  to  collect/' 

Dave  opened  his  eyes  upon  a  world  which  danced 
hazily  before  him.  He  had  a  splitting  headache. 

"Wha's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"You  had  a  run-in  with  a  bunch  of  sheep  wranglers," 
Bob  told  him.  "They're  going  to  be  plumb  sorry  they 
got  gay." 

Presently  Shorty  returned.  "That  team's  hooked 
up,"  he  told  the  world  at  large. 

"  You  '11  drive  us,  Steelman,"  announced  Craw- 
ford. 

"Me!"  screamed  the  leader  of  the  other  faction. 
"You  got  the  most  nerve  I  ever  did  see." 

"Sure.  Drive  him  home,  Brad,"  advised  Shorty  with 
bitter  sarcasm.  "Black  his  boots.  Wait  on  him  good. 
Step  lively  when  yore  new  boss  whistles."  He  cackled 
with  splenetic  laughter. 

"I  dunno  as  I  need  to  drive  you  home,"  Steelman  said 
slowly,  feeling  his  way  to  a  decision.  "You  know  the 
way  better  'n  I  do." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  leaders  met. 

"  You'll  drive,"  the  cattleman  repeated  steadily. 

The  weak  spot  in  Steelman' s  leadership  was  that  he 
was  personally  not  game.  Crawford  had  a  pungent 
personality.  He  was  dynamic,  strong,  master  of  himself 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  49 

in  any  emergency.  The  sheepman's  will  melted  before 
his  insistence.  He  dared  not  face  a  showdown. 

"Oh,  well,  what's  it  matter?  We  can  talk  things  over 
on  the  way.  Me,  I'm  not  lookin'  for  trouble  none,"  he 
said,  his  small  black  eyes  moving  restlessly  to  watch 
the  effect  of  this  on  his  men. 

Bob  helped  his  partner  out  of  the  house  and  into  the 
surrey.  The  cattleman  took  the  seat  beside  Steelman, 
across  his  knees  the  sawed-off  shotgun.  He  had  brought 
his  enemy  along  for  two  reasons.  One  was  to  weaken  his 
prestige  with  his  own  men.  The  other  was  to  prevent 
them  from  shooting  at  the  rig  as  they  drove  away. 

Steelman  drove  in  silence.  His  heart  was  filled  with 
surging  hatred.  During  that  ride  was  born  a  determina- 
tion to  have  nothing  less  than  the  life  of  his  enemy 
when  the  time  should  be  ripe. 

At  the  door  of  his  house  Crawford  dismissed  him  con- 
temptuously. ' '  Get  out. " 

The  man  with  the  reins  spoke  softly,  venomously, 
from  a  dry  throat.  "One  o'  these  days  you'll  crawl  on 
your  hands  and  knees  to  me  for  this." 

He  whipped  up  the  team  and  rattled  away  furiously 
into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  D  BAR  LAZY  R  BOYS  MEET  AN  ANGEL 

JOYCE  came  flying  to  her  father's  arms.  The  white  lace 
of  a  nightgown  showed  beneath  the  dressing-robe  she 
had  hurriedly  donned.  A  plait  of  dark  hair  hung  across 
her  shoulder  far  below  the  waist.  She  threw  herself  at 
Crawford  with  a  moaning  little  sob. 

"Oh  Dad  .  .  .  Dad  .  .  .  Dad!"  she  cried,  and  her 
slender  arms  went  round  his  neck. 

"T's  all  right,  sweetheart.  Yore  old  dad's  not  even 
powder-burnt.  You  been  worryin'  a  heap,  I  reckon." 
His  voice  was  full  of  rough  tenderness. 

She  began  to  cry. 

He  patted  her  shoulder  and  caressed  her  dark  head, 
drawing  it  close  to  his  shoulder.  "Now  —  now  —  now, 
sweetheart,  don't  you  cry.  It's  all  right,  KT  honey- 
bug." 

"You're  not  .  .  .  hurt,"  she  begged  through  her 
tears. 

"Not  none.  Never  was  huskier.  But  I  got  a  boy  out 
here  that 's  beat  up  some.  Come  in,  Dave  —  and  you, 
Bob.  They 're  good  boys,  Joy.  I  want  you  to  meet 'em 
both." 

The  girl  had  thought  her  father  alone.  She  flung  one 
startled  glance  into  the  jiight,  clutched  the  dressing- 
gown  closer  rotind  her  throat,  and  fled  her  barefoot  way 
into  the  darkness  of  the  house.  To  the  boys,  hanging 
back  awkwardly  at  the  gate,  the  slim  child-woman  was 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  51 

a  vision  wonderful.  Their  starved  eyes  found  in  her 
white  loveliness  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 

Her  father  laughed.  "Joy  ain't  dressed  for  callers. 
Come  in,  boys." 

He  lit  a  lamp  and  drew  Dave  to  a  lounge.  "Lemme 
look  at  yore  haid,  son.  Bob,  you  hotfoot  it  for  Doc 
Green." 

"It's  nothin'  a-tall  to  make  a  fuss  about,"  Dave 
apologized.  "Only  a  love  tap,  compliments  of  Shorty, 
and  some  kicks  in  the  slats,  kindness  of  Mr.  Miller." 

In  spite  of  his  debonair  manner  Dave  still  had  a  bad 
headache  and  was  so  sore  around  the  body  that  he  could 
scarcely  move  without  groaning.  He  kept  his  teeth 
clamped  on  the  pain  because  he  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  outdoor  code  of  the  West  which  demands  of  a  man 
that  he  grin  and  stand  the  gaff. 

While  the  doctor  was  attending  to  his  injuries,  Dave 
caught  sight  once  or  twice  of  Joyce  at  the  door,  clad 
now  in  a  summer  frock  of  white  with  a  blue  sash.  She 
was  busy  supplying,  in  a  brisk,  competent  way,  the 
demands  of  the  doctor  for  hot  and  cold  water  and  clean 
linen. 

Meanwhile  Crawford  told  his  story.  "I  was  right  close 
to  the  club  when  Doble  met  me.  He  pulled  a  story  of 
how  his  brother  Dug  had  had  trouble  with  Steelman 
and  got  shot  up.  I  swallowed  it  hook,  bait,  and  sinker. 
Soon  as  I  got  into  the  house  they  swarmed  over  me  like 
bees.  I  did  n't  even  get  my  six-gun  out.  Brad  wanted 
me  to  sign  a  relinquishment.  I  told  him  where  he  could 
head  in  at." 

"What  would  have  happened  if  the  boys  hadn't 


52  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

dropped  along?"  asked  Dr.  Green  as  he  repacked  his 
medicine  case. 

The  cattleman  looked  at  him,  and  his  eyes  were  hard 
and  bleak.  "Why,  Doc,  yore  guess  is  as  good  as  mine." 
he  said. 

"Mine  is,  you'd  have  been  among  the  missing,  Em. 
Well,  I'm  leaving  a  sleeping-powder  for  the  patient 
in  case  he  needs  it  in  an  hour  or  two.  In  the  morning 
I'll  drop  round  again,"  the  doctor  said. 

He  did,  and  found  Dave  much  improved.  The  clean 
outdoors  of  the  rough-riding  West  builds  blood  that  is 
red.  A  city  man  might  have  kept  his  bed  a  week,  but 
Dave  was  up  and  ready  to  say  good-bye  within  forty- 
eight  hours.  He  was  still  a  bit  under  par,  a  trifle  washed- 
out,  but  he  wanted  to  take  the  road  in  pursuit  of  Miller 
and  Doble,  who  had  again  decamped  in  a  hurry  with 
the  two  horses  they  had  stolen. 

"They  had  the  broncs  hid  up  Frio  Canon  way,  I 
reckon,"  explained  Hart.  "But  they  didn't  take  no 
chances.  When  they  left  that  'dobe  house  they  lit 
a-runnin'  and  clumb  for  the  high  hills  on  the  jump. 
And  they  didn't  leave  no  address  neither.  We'll  be 
followin'  a  cold  trail.  We're  not  liable  to  find  them 
after  they  hole  up  in  some  mountain  pocket." 

"Might.  Never  can  tell.  Le's  take  a  whirl  at  it  any- 
how," urged  Dave. 

"Hate  to  give  up  yore  paint  hoss,  don't  you?"  said 
Bob  with  his  friendly  grin.  "Ain't  blamin'  you  none 
whatever.  I'd  sleep  on  those  fellows'  trail  if  Chiquito 
was  mine.  What  say  we  outfit  in  the  mornin'  and  pull 
our  freights?  Maybeso  we'll  meet  up  with  the  thieves 
at  that.  Yo  no  se  (I  don't  know)  ." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  53 

When  Joyce  was  in  the  room  where  Dave  lay  on  the 
lounge,  the  young  man  never  looked  at  her,  but.  he  saw 
nobody  else.  Brought  up  in  a  saddle  on  the  range,  he 
had  never  before  met  a  girl  like  her.  It  was  not  only 
that  she  was  beautiful  and  fragrant  as  apple-blossoms, 
a  mystery  of  maidenhood  whose  presence  awed  his 
simple  soul.  It  was  not  only  that  she  seemed  so  deli- 
cately precious,  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal  set  apart 
by  reason  of  her  buoyant  grace,  the  soft  rustle  of  her 
skirts,  the  fine  texture  of  the  satiny  skin.  What  took 
him  by  the  throat  was  her  goodness.  She  was  enshrined 
in  his  heart  as  a  young  saint.  He  would  have  thought  it 
sacrilege  to  think  of  her  as  a  wide-awake  young  woman 
subject  to  all  the  vanities  of  her  sex.  And  he  could  have 
cited  evidence.  The  sweetness  of  her  affection  for  rough 
Em  Crawford,  the  dear,  maternal  tenderness  with  which 
she  ruled  her  three-year-old  brother  Keith,  motherless 
since  the  week  of  his  birth,  the  kindness  of  the  luminous 
brown  eyes  to  the  uncouth  stranger  thrown  upon  her 
hospitality:  Dave  treasured  them  all  as  signs  of  angelic 
grace,  and  they  played  upon  his  heartstrings  disturb- 
ingly. 

Joyce  brought  Keith  in  to  say  good-bye  to  Dave  and 
his  friend  before  they  left.  The,  little  fellow  ran  across 
the  room  to  his  new  pal,  who  had  busied  himself  weaving 
horsehair  playthings  for  the  youngster. 

"You  turn  back  and  make  me  a  bwidle,  Dave,"  he 
cried. 

"I'll  sure  come  or  else  send  you  one,"  the  cowpuncher 
promised,  rising  to  meet  Joyce. 

She  carried  her  slender  figure  across  the  room  with 


54  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

perfect  ease  and  rhythm,  head  beautifully  poised,  young 
seventeen  as  self-possessed  as  thirty.  As  much  could 
not  be  said  for  her  guests.  They  were  all  legs  and  gan- 
gling arms,  red  ears  and  dusty  boots. 

"  Yes,  we  all  want  you  to  come  back,"  she  said  with 
a  charming  smile.  "I  think  you  saved  Father's  life. 
We  can't  tell  you  how  much  we  owe  you.  Can  we, 
Keith?" 

"Nope.  When  will  you  send  the  bwidle?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Soon,"  the  restored  patient  said  to  the  boy,  and  to 
her:  "That  was  n't  nothin'  a-tall.  From  where  I  come 
from  we  always  been  use  to  standin'  by  our  boss." 

He  shifted  awkwardly  to  the  other  foot,  flushing  to 
the  hair  while  he  buried  her  soft  little  hand  in  his  big 
freckled  one.  The  girl  showed  no  shyness.  Seventeen  is 
sometimes  so  much  older  than  twenty. 

"Tha's  what  us  D  Bar  Lazy  R  boys  are  ridin'  with 
yore  paw's  outfit  for,  Miss  —  to  be  handy  when  he 
needs  us,"  Bob  added  in  his  turn.  "We're  sure  tickled 
we  got  a  chanct  to  go  to  Brad  Steelman's  party.  I'm 
ce'tainly  glad  to  'a'  met  you,  Miss  Joyce."  He  ducked 
his  head  and  scraped  back  a  foot  in  what  was  meant  to 
be  a  bow. 

Emerson  Crawford  sauntered  in,  big  and  bluff  and 
easy-going.  "Hittin'  the  trail,  boys?  Good  enough. 
Hope  you  find  the  thieves.  If  you  do,  play  yore  cards 
close.  They're  treacherous  devils.  Don't  take  no 
chances  with  'em.  I  left  an  order  at  the  store  for  you 
to  draw  on  me  for  another  pair  of  boots  in  place  of 
those  you  lost  in  the  brush,  Dave.  Get  a  good  pair,  son. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  55 

They're  on  me.  Well,  so  long.  Luck,  boys.  I'll  look 
for  you-all  back  with  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  when  you've 
finished  this  job." 

The  punchers  rode  away  without  looking  back,  but 
many  times  in  the  days  that  followed  their  hearts 
turned  to  that  roof  which  had  given  the  word  home  a 
new  meaning  to  them  both. 


CHAPTER  IX 
GUNSIGHT  PASS 

THE  pursuit  took  the  riders  across  a  wide,  undulating 
plain  above  which  danced  the  dry  heat  of  the  desert. 
Lizards  sunned  themselves  on  flat  rocks.  A  rattlesnake 
slid  toward  the  cover  of  a  prickly  pear.  The  bleached 
bones  of  a  cow  shone  white  beside  the  trail. 

The  throats  of  the  cowpunchers  filled  with  alkali 
dust  and  their  eyes  grew  red  and  sore  from  it.  Magnifi- 
cent mirages  unfolded  themselves:  lakes  cool  and  limpid, 
stretching  to  the  horizon,  with  inviting  forests  in  the 
distance;  an  oasis  of  lush  green  fields  that  covered 
miles;  mesquite  distorted  to  the  size  of  giant  trees  and 
cattle  transformed  into  dinosaurs.  The  great  gray 
desert  took  on  freakish  shapes  of  erosion.  Always,  hour 
after  hour  beneath  a  copper  sky,  they  rode  in  palpitat- 
ing heat  through  sand  drifts,  among  the  salt  bushes  and 
the  creosote,  into  cowbacked  hills  beyond  which  the 
stark  mountains  rose. 

Out  of  the  fiery  furnace  of  the  plain  they  came  in  late 
afternoon  to  the  uplands,  plunging  into  a  land  of  deep 
gorges  and  great  chasms.  Here  manzanita  grew  and 
liveoaks  flourished.  They  sent  a  whitetail  buck  crash- 
ing through  the  brush  into  a  canon. 

When  night  fell  they  built  a  fire  of  niggerheads  and 
after  they  had  eaten  found  its  glow  grateful.  For  they 
were  well  up  in  the  hills  now  and  the  night  air  was 
sharp. 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  57 

In  the  sandy  desert  they  had  followed  easily  the  trail 
of  the  thieves,  but  as  they  had  got  into  the  hills  the 
tracks  had  become  fainter  and  fewer.  The  young  men 
discussed  this  while  they  lay  in  their  blankets  in  a 
water-gutted  gulch  not  too  near  the  fire  they  had  built. 

"Like  huntin'  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack,"  said  Bob. 
"Their  trail's  done  petered  out.  They  might  be  in  any 
one  of  a  hundred  pockets  right  close,  or  they  may  have 
bore  'way  off  to  the  right.  All  they  got  to  do  is  hole  up 
and  not  build  any  fires." 

"Fat  chance  we  got,"  admitted  Dave.  "Unless  they 
build  a  fire  like  we  done.  Say,  I'd  a  heap  rather  be 
sleepin'  here  than  by  that  niggerhead  blaze  to-night. 
They  might  creep  up  and  try  to  gun  us." 

Before  they  had  been  in  the  saddle  an  hour  next  day 
the  trail  of  the  thieves  was  lost.  The  pursuers  spent  till 
sunset  trying  to  pick  it  up  again.  The  third  day  was 
wasted  in  aimless  drifting  among  the  defiles  of  the 
mountains. 

"No  use,  Bob,"  said  his  friend  while  they  were 
cooking  supper.  "  They 've  made  their  getaway .  Might 
as  well  drift  back  to  Malapi,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"Looks  like.   We're  only  wastin'  our  time  here." 

Long  before  day  broke  they  started. 

The  canons  below  were  filled  with  mist  as  they  rode 
down  out  of  the  mountains  toward  the  crystal  dawn 
that  already  flooded  the  plain.  The  court-house  clock 
at  Malapi  said  the  time  was  midnight  when  the  dust- 
covered  men  and  horses  drew  into  the  town. 

The  tired  men  slept  till  noon.  At  the  Delmonico 
Restaurant  they  found  Buck  Byington  and  Steve 


58  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Russell.  The  trail  herd  had  been  driven  in  an  hour 
before. 

"How's  old  Alkali?"  asked  Dave  of  his  friend  Buck, 
thumping  him  on  the  back. 

"  Jes'  tolable,"  answered  the  old-time!*  equably,  mak- 
ing great  play  with  knife  and  fork.  "A  man  or  a  hawss 
don't  either  one  amount  to  much  after  they  onct  been 
stove  up.  Since  that  bronc  piled  me  at  Willow  Creek  I 
been  mighty  stiff,  you  might  say." 

"Dug's  payin'  off  to-day,  boys,"  Russell  told  them. 
"You'll  find  him  round  to  the  Boston  Emporium." 

The  foreman  settled  first  with  Hart,  after  which  he 
turned  to  the  page  in  his  pocket  notebook  that  held  the 
account  of  Sanders. 

"You've  drew  one  month's  pay.  That  leaves  you 
three  months,  less  the  week  you've  fooled  away  after 
the  pinto." 

"C'rect,"  admitted  Dave. 

"I'll  dock  you  seven  and  a  half  for  that.  Three  times 
thirty  's  ninety.  Take  seven  and  a  half  from  that 
leaves  eighty-two  fifty." 

"Hold  on!"  objected  Dave.  "My  pay's  thirty-five 
a  month." 

"First  I  knew  of  it,"  said  the  foreman,  eyes  bleak 
and  harsh.  "Thirty  's  what  you're  gettin'." 

"I  came  in  as  top  hand  at  thirty-five." 

"You  did  not,"  denied  Doble  flatly. 

The  young  man  flushed.  "You  can't  run  that  on  me, 
Dug.  I'll  not  stand  for  it." 

"Eighty-two  fifty  is  what  you  get,"  answered  the 
other  dogmatically.  "You  can  take  it  or  go  to  hell." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  59 

He  began  to  sort  out  a  number  of  small  checks  with 
which  to  pay  the  puncher.  At  that  time  the  currency 
of  the  country  consisted  largely  of  cattlemen's  checks 
which  passed  from  hand  to  hand  till  they  were  grimy 
with  dirt.  Often  these  were  not  cashed  for  months  later. 

"We'll  see  what  the  old  man  says  about  that,"  re- 
torted Dave  hotly.  It  was  in  his  mind  to  say  that  he 
did  not  intend  to  be  robbed  by  both  the  Doble  brothers, 
but  he  wisely  repressed  the  impulse.  Dug  would  as  soon 
fight  as  eat,  and  the  young  rider  knew  he  would  not 
have  a  chance  in  the  world  against  him. 

"All  right,"  sneered  the  foreman.  "Run  with  yore 
tale  of  grief  to  Crawford.  Tell  him  I  been  pickin'  on 
you.  I  hear  you've  got  to  be  quite  a  pet  of  his." 

This  brought  Dave  up  with  a  short  turn.  He  could 
not  take  advantage  of  the  service  he  had  done  the 
owner  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  to  ask  him  to  interfere  in 
his  behalf  with  the  foreman.  Doble  might  be  cynically 
defrauding  him  of  part  of  what  was  due  him  in  wages. 
Dave  would  have  to  fight  that  out  with  him  for  himself. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  no  redress.  Unless  he 
appealed  to  the  cattleman  he  would  have  to  accept 
what  the  foreman  offered. 

Moreover,  his  pride  was  touched.  He  was  young 
enough  to  be  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  his  ability  to 
look  out  for  himself. 

"I'm  no  pet  of  anybody,"  he  flung  out.  "Gimme 
that  money.  It  ain't  a  square  deal,  but  I  reckon  I  can 
stand  it." 

"I  reckon  you'll  have  to.  It's  neck  meat  or  nothin'," 
grunted  the  foreman. 


60  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

Doble  counted  him  out  eighty  dollars  in  cattlemen's 
checks  and  paid  him  two-fifty  in  cash.  While  Dave 
signed  a  receipt  the  hook-nosed  foreman,  broad  shoul- 
ders thrown  back  and  thumbs  hitched  in  the  arm-holes 
of  his  vest,  sat  at  ease  in  a  tilted  chair  and  grinned 
maliciously  at  his  victim.  He  was  "puttin'  somethin' 
over  on  him,"  and  he  wanted  Dave  to  know  it.  Dug 
had  no  affection  for  his  half-brother,  but  he  resented 
the  fact  that  Sanders  publicly  and  openly  despised  him 
as  a  crook.  He  took  it  as  a  personal  reflection  on 
himself. 

Still  smouldering  with  anger  at  this  high-handed  pro- 
ceeding, Dave  went  down  to  the  Longhorn  Corral  and 
saddled  his  horse.  He  had  promised  Byington  to  help 
water  the  herd. 

This  done,  he  rode  back  to  town,  hitched  the  horse 
back  of  a  barber  shop,  and  went  in  for  a  shave.  Pres- 
ently he  was  stretched  in  a  chair,  his  boots  thrown 
across  the  foot  rest  in  front  of  him. 

The  barber  lathered  his  face  and  murmured  gossip  in 
his  ear.  "George  Doble  and  Miller  claim  they're 
goin'  to  Denver  to  run  some  skin  game  at  a  street 
fair.  They're  sure  slick  guys." 

Dave  offered  no  comment. 

"You  notice  they  did  n't  steal  any  of  Em  Crawford's 
stock.  No,  sirree!  They  knew  better.  Hopped  away 
with  broncs  belongin'  to  you  boys  because  they  knew 
it 'd  be  safe." 

"Picked  easy  marks,  did  they?"  asked  the  puncher 
sardonically. 

The  man  with  the  razor  tilted  the  chin  of  his  customer 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  61 

and  began  to  scrape.  "Well,  o'  course  you're  only  boys. 
They  took  advantage  of  that  and  done  you  a  meanness." 

Dug  Doble  came  into  the  shop,  very  grim  about  the 
mouth.  He  stopped  to  look  down  sarcastically  at  the 
new  boots  Sanders  was  wearing. 

"I  see  you've  bought  you  a  new  pair  of  boots,"  he 
said  in  a  heavy,  domineering  voice. 

Dave  waited  without  answering,  his  eyes  meeting 
steadily  those  of  the  foreman. 

The  big  fellow  laid  a  paper  on  the  breast  of  the  cow- 
puncher.  "Here's  a  bill  for  a  pair  of  boots  you  charged 
to  the  old  man's  account  —  eighteen  dollars.  I  got  it 
just  now  at  the  store.  You'll  dig  up." 

It  was  the  custom  for  riders  who  came  to  town  to 
have  the  supplies  they  needed  charged  to  their  em- 
ployers against  wages  due  them.  Doble  took  it  for 
granted  that  Sanders  had  done  this,  which  was  contrary 
to  the  orders  he  had  given  his  outfit.  He  did  not  know 
the  young  man  had  lost  his  boots  while  rescuing 
Crawford  and  had  been  authorized  by  him  to  get  an- 
other pair  in  place  of  them. 

Nor  did  Dave  intend  to  tell  him.  Here  was  a  chance 
to  even  the  score  against  the  foreman.  Already  he  had 
a  plan  simmering  in  his  mind  that  would  take  him  out 
of  this  part  of  the  country  for  a  time.  He  could  no 
longer  work  for  Doble  without  friction,  and  he  had 
business  of  his  own  to  attend  to.  The  way  to  solve  the 
immediate  difficulty  flashed  through  his  brain  instantly, 
every  detail  clear. 

It  was  scarcely  a  moment  before  he  drawled  an 
answer.  "I'll  'tend  to  it  soon  as  I'm  out  of  the  chair." 


m  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

/'I  gave  orders  for  none  of  you  fellows  to  charge 
goods  to  the  old  man,"  said  Doble  harshly. 

"Did  you?"   Dave's  voice  was  light  and  careless. 

"You  can  go  hunt  a  job  somewheres  else.  You're 
through  with  me." 

"I'll  hate  to  part  with  you." 

"Don't  get  heavy,  young  fellow." 

"No,"  answered  Dave  with  mock  meekness. 

Doble  sat  down  in  a  chair  to  wait.  He  had  no  inten- 
tion of  leaving  until  Dave  had  settled. 

After  the  barber  had  finished  with  him  the  puncher 
stepped  across  to  a  looking-glass  and  adjusted  carefully 
the  silk  handkerchief  worn  knotted  loosely  round  the 
throat. 

"Get  a  move  on  you!"  urged  the  foreman.  His  pa- 
tience, of  which  he  never  had  a  large  supply  to  draw 
from,  was  nearly  exhausted.  "I'm  not  goin'  to  spend 
all  day  on  this." 

"I'm  ready." 

Dave  followed  Doble  out  of  the  shop.  Apparently  he 
did  not  hear  the  gentle  reminder  of  the  barber,  who 
was  [forced  to  come  to  the  door  and  repeat  his  ques- 
tion. 

"Want  that  shave  charged?" 

"Oh!  Clean  forgot."  Sanders  turned  back,  feeling 
in  his  pocket  for  change. 

He  pushed  past  the  barber  into  the  shop,  slapped  a 
quarter  down  on  the  cigar-case,  and  ran  out  through 
the  back  door.  A  moment  later  he  pulled  the  slip-knot 
of  his  bridle  from  the  hitching-bar,  swung  to  the  saddle, 
and  spurred  his  horse  to  a  gallop.  In  a  cloud  of  dust  he 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  63 

swept  round  the  building  to  the  road  and  waved  a  hand 
derisively  toward  Doble. 

"See  you  later!"  he  shouted. 

The  foreman  wasted  no  breath  in  futile  rage.  He 
strode  to  the  nearest  hitching-post  and  flung  himself 
astride  leather.  The  horse's  hoofs  pounded  down  the 
road  in  pursuit. 

Sanders  was  riding  the  same  bronco  he  had  used  to 
follow  the  horsethieves.  It  had  been  under  a  saddle 
most  of  the  time  for  a  week  and  was  far  from  fresh. 
Before  he  had  gone  a  mile  he  knew  that  the  foreman 
would  catch  up  with  him. 

He  was  riding  for  Gunsight  Pass.  It  was  necessary 
to  get  there  before  Doble  reached  him.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  to  surrender  or  fight,  and  neither  of  these 
fitted  in  with  his  plans. 

Once  he  had  heard  Emerson  Crawford  give  a  piece  of 
advice  to  a  hotheaded  and  unwise  puncher.  "Never  call 
for  a  gun-play  on  a  bluff,  son.  There's  no  easier  way 
to  commit  suicide  than  to  pull  a  six-shooter  you  ain't 
willin'  to  use."  Dug  Doble  was  what  Byington  called 
"bull-haided."  He  had  forced  a  situation  which  could 
not  be  met  without  a  showdown.  This  meant  that  the 
young  range-rider  would  either  have  to  take  a  thrash- 
ing or  draw  his  forty-five  and  use  it.  Neither  of  these 
alternatives  seemed  worth  while  in  view  of  the  small 
stakes  at  issue.  Because  he  was  not  ready  to  kill  or  be 
killed,  Dave  was  flying  for  the  hills. 

The  fugitive  had  to  use  his  quirt  to  get  there  in  time. 
The  steepness  of  the  road  made  heavy  going.  As  he 
neared  the  summit  the  grade  grew  worse.  The  bronco 


64  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

labored  heavily  in  its  stride  as  its  feet  reached  for  the 
road  ahead. 

But  here  Dave  had  the  advantage.  Doble  was  a 
much  heavier  man  than  he,  and  his  mount  took  the 
shoulder  of  the  ridge  slower.  By  the  time  the  foreman 
showed  in  silhouette  against  the  skyline  at  the  entrance 
to  the  pass  the  younger  man  had  disappeared. 

The  D  Bar  Lazy  R  foreman  found  out  at  once  what 
had  become  of  him.  A  crisp  voice  gave  clear  directions. 

4  *  That  '11  be  far  enough.  Stop  right  where  you  're  at  or 
you  '11  notice  trouble  pop.  And  don't  reach  for  yore  gun 
unless  you  want  to  hear  the  band  begin  to  play  a  funeral 
piece." 

The  words  came,  it  seemed  to  Doble,  out  of  the  air. 
He  looked  up.  Two  great  boulders  lay  edge  to  edge 
beside  the  path.  Through  a  narrow  rift  the  blue  nose 
of  a  forty-five  protruded.  Back  of  it  glittered  a  pair 
of  steady,  steely  eyes. 

The  foreman  did  not  at  all  like  the  look  of  things. 
Sanders  was  a  good  shot.  From  where  he  lay,  almost 
entirely  protected,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  pick  his  op- 
ponent off  at  his  leisure.  If  his  hand  were  forced  he 
would  do  it.  And  the  law  would  let  him  go  scot  free, 
since  Doble  was  a  fighting  man  and  had  been  seen  to 
start  in  pursuit  of  the  boy. 

''Come  outa  there  and  shell  out  that  eighteen  dol- 
lars," demanded  Doble. 

"Nothin'  doin',  Dug." 

"Don't  run  on  the  rope  with  me,  young  fellow.  You '11 
sure  be  huntin'  trouble." 

"What's  the  use  o'  beefin'?   I've  got  the  dead  wood 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  65 

on  you.  Better  hit  the  dust  back  to  town  arid  explain  to 
the  boys  how  yore  bronc  went  lame,"  advised  Dave. 

"Come  down  and  I'll  wallop  the  tar  outa  you." 

"Much  obliged.   I'm  right  comfortable  here." 

"I've  a  mind  to  come  up  and  dig  you  out." 

"Please  yoreself,  Dug.  We'll  find  out  then  which  one 
of  us  goes  to  hell." 

The  foreman  cursed,  fluently,  expertly,  passionately. 
Not  in  a  long  time  had  he  had  the  turn  called  on  him  so 
adroitly.  He  promised  Dave  sudden  death  in  various 
forms  whenever  he  could  lay  hands  upon  him. 

"You're  sure  doin'  yoreself  proud,  Dug,"  the  young 
man  told  him  evenly.  "I'll  wrrite  the  boys  how  you 
spilled  language  so  thorough." 

"If  I  could  only  lay  my  hands  on  you!"  the  raw- 
boned  cattleman  stormed. 

"I'll  bet  you'd  massacree  me  proper,"  admitted 
Dave  quite  cheerfully. 

Suddenly  Doble  gave  up.  He  wheeled  his  horse  and 
began  to  descend  the  steep  slope.  Steadily  he  jogged  on 
to  town,  not  once  turning  to  look  back.  His  soul  was 
filled  with  chagrin  and  fury  at  the  defeat  this  stripling 
had  given  him.  He  was  ready  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  the 
first  man  who  asked  him  a  question  about  what  had 
taken  place  at  the  pass. 

Nobody  asked  a  question.  Men  looked  at  him,  read 
the  menace  of  his  sullen,  angry  face,  and  side-stepped 
his  rage.  They  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  his  ride  had 
been  a  failure.  His  manner  advertised  it.  Whatever 
had  taken  place  had  not  redounded  to  the  glory  of  Dug 
Doble. 


66  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Later  in  the  day  the  foreman  met  the  owner  of  the 
D  Bar  Lazy  R  brand  to  make  a  detailed  statement  of 
the  cost  of  the  drive.  He  took  peculiar  pleasure  in  men- 
tioning one  item. 

"That  young  scalawag  Sanders  beat  you  outa  eight- 
een dollars,"  he  said  with  a  sneer  of  triumph. 

Doble  had  heard  the  story  of  what  Dave  and  Bob  had 
done  for  Crawford  and  of  how  the  wounded  boy  had 
been  taken  to  the  cattleman's  home  and  nursed  there. 
It  pleased  him  now  to  score  off  what  he  chose  to  think 
was  the  soft-headedness  of  his  chief. 

The  cattleman  showed  interest.  "That  so,  Dug? 
Sorry.  I  took  a  fancy  to  that  boy.  What  did  he  do?  " 

"You  know  how  vaqueros  are  always  comin'  in  and 
chargin'  goods  against  the  boss.  I  give  out  the  word 
they  was  to  quit  it.  Sanders  he  gets  a  pair  of  eighteen- 
dollar  boots,  then  jumps  the  town  before  I  find  out 
about  it." 

Crawford  started  to  speak,  but  Doble  finished  his  story. 

"I  took  out  after  him,  but  my  bronc  went  lame  from  a 
stone  in  its  hoof.  You  '11  never  see  that  eighteen  plunks, 
Em.  It  don't  do  to  pet  cowhands." 

"Too  bad  you  took  all  that  trouble,  Dug,"  the  old 
cattleman  began  mildly.  "The  fact  is  — " 

"Trouble.  Say,  I'd  ride  to  Tombstone  to  get  a  crack 
at  that  young  smart  Aleck.  I  told  him  what  I'd  do  to 
him  if  I  ever  got  my  fists  on  him." 

"So  you  did  catch  up  with  him." 

Dug  drew  back  sulkily  within  himself.  He  did  not  in- 
tend to  tell  all  he  knew  about  the  Gunsight  Pass  episode. 
""I  did  n't  say  when  I  told  him." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  67 

"Tha's  so.  You  didn't.  Well,  I'm  right  sorry  you 
took  so  blamed  much  trouble  to  find  him.  Funny, 
though,  he  did  n't  tell  you  I  gave  him  the  boots." 

"You  —  what?"  The  foreman  snapped  the  question 
out  with  angry  incredulity. 

The  ranchman  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
leaned  back  easily.  He  was  smiling  now  frankly. 

"Why,  yes.  I  told  him  to  buy  the  boots  and  have  'em 
charged  to  my  account.  And  the  blamed  little  rooster 
never  told  you,  eh?" 

Doble  choked  for  words  with  which  to  express  him- 
self. He  glared  at  his  employer  as  though  Crawf ord  had 
actually  ijisulted  him. 

In  an  easy,  conversational  tone  the  cattleman  con- 
tinued, but  now  there  was  a  touch  of  frost  in  his  eyes. 
"It  was  thisaway,  Dug.  When  he  and  Bob  knocked 
Steelman's  plans  hell  west  and  crooked  after  that  yellow 
skunk  George  Doble  betrayed  me  to  Brad,  the  boy  lost 
his  boots  in  the  brush.  'Course  I  said  to  get  another  pair 
at  the  store  and  charge  'em  to  me.  I  reckon  he  was 
havin'  some  fun  joshin'  you." 

The  foreman  was  furious.  He  sputtered  with  the  rage 
that  boiled  inside  him.  But  some  instinct  warned  him 
that  unless  he  wanted  to  break  with  Crawford  com- 
pletely he  must  restrain  his  impulse  to  rip  loose. 

"All  right,"  he  mumbled.  "If  you  told  him  to  get. 
'em,  'nough  said." 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  CATTLE  TRAIN 

DAVE  stood  on  the  fence  of  one  of  the  shipping  pens  at 
the  Albuquerque  stockyards  and  used  a  prod-pole  to 
guide  the  bawling  cattle  below.  The  Fifty-Four  Quarter 
Circle  was  loading  a  train  of  beef  steers  and  cows  for 
Denver.  Just  how  he  was  going  to  manage  it  Dave  did 
not  know,  but  he  intended  to  be  aboard  that  freight 
when  it  pulled  out  for  the  mile-high  town  in  Colorado. 
He  had  reached  Albuquerque  by  a  strange  and  devi- 
ous route  of  zigzags  and  back-trackings.  His  weary 
bronco  he  had  long  since  sold  for  ten  dollars  at  a  cow 
town  where  he  had  sacked  his  saddle  to  be  held  at  a  liv- 
ery stable  until  sent  for.  By  blind  baggage  he  had  rid- 
den a  night  and  part  of  a  day.  For  a  hundred  miles  he 
had  actually  paid  his  fare.  The  next  leg  of  the  journey 
had  been  more  exciting.  He  had  elected  to  travel  by 
freight.  For  many  hours  he  and  a  husky  brakeman  had 
held  different  opinions  about  this.  Dave  had  been 
chased  from  the  rods  into  an  empty  and  out  of  the  box 
car  to  the  roof.  He  had  been  ditched  half  a  dozen  times 
during  the  night,  but  each  time  he  had  managed  to  hook 
on  before  the  train  had  gathered  headway.  The  brake- 
man enlisted  the  rest  of  the  crew  in  the  hunt,  with  the 
result  that  the  range-rider  found  himself  stranded  on  the 
desert  ten  miles  from  a  station.  He  walked  the  ties  in 
his  high-heeled  boots,  and  before  he  reached  the  yards 
his  feet  were  sending  messages  of  pain  at  every  step. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  69 

Reluctantly  he  bought  a  ticket  to  Albuquerque.  Here 
he  had  picked  up  a  temporary  job  ten  minutes  after  his 
arrival. 

A  raw-boned  inspector  kept  tally  at  the  chute  while 
the  cattle  passed  up  into  the  car. 

"Fifteen,  sixteen  —  prod  'em  up,  you  Arizona  — 
seventeen,  eighteen  —  jab  that  whiteface  along  — 
nineteen  —  hustle  'em  in." 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  dust  raised  by  the  milling 
cattle.  Calves  stretched  their  necks  and  blatted  for 
their  mothers,  which  kept  up  in  turn  a  steady  bawling 
for  their  strayed  offspring.  They  were  conscious  that 
something  unusual  was  in  progress,  something  that 
threatened  their  security  and  comfort,  and  they  re- 
sented it  in  the  only  way  they  knew. 

Car  after  car  was  jammed  full  of  the  frightened  crea- 
tures as  the  men  moved  from  pen  to  pen,  threw  open  and 
shut  the  big  gates,  and  hustled  the  stock  up  the  -chutes. 
Dave  had  begun  work  at  six  in  the  morning.  A  glance 
at  his  watch  showed  him  that  it  was  now  ten  o'clock. 

A  middle-aged  man  in  wrinkled  corduroys  and  a 
pinched-in  white  hat  drove  up  to  the  fence.  "How 're 
they  coming,  Sam?"  he  asked  of  the  foreman  in  charge. 

"We'd  ought  to  be  movin'  by  noon,  Mr.  West." 

"Fine.  I've  decided  to  send  Garrison  in  charge.  He 
can  pick  one  of  the  boys  to  take  along.  We  can't  right 
well  spare  any  of  'em  now.  If  I  knew  where  to  find  a 
good  man  — " 

The  lean  Arizona-born  youth  slid  from  the  fence  on 
his  prod-pole  and  stepped  forward  till  he  stood  beside 
the  buckboard  of  the  cattleman. 


70  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"I'm  the  man  you're  lookin'  for,  Mr.  West." 

The  owner  of  the  Fifty-Four  Quarter  Circle  brand 
looked  him  over  with  keen  eyes  around  which  nets  of 
little  wrinkles  spread. 

"What  man?"  he  asked. 

"The  one  to  help  Mr.  Garrison  take  the  cattle  to 
Denver." 

"Recommend  yoreself,  can  you?"  asked  West  with  a 
hint  of  humor. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Dave  Sanders  —  from  Arizona,  first  off."    ^ 

"Been  punchin'  long?" 

"Since  I  was  a  kid.  Worked  for  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R 
last." 

"Ever  go  on  a  cattle  train?" 

"Twice  —  to  Kansas  City." 

"Hmp!"  That  grunt  told  Dave  just  what  the  diffi- 
culty was.  It  said,  "I  don't  know  you.  Why  should  I 
trust  you  to  help  take  a  trainload  of  my  cattle  through?  " 

"You  can  wire  to  Mr.  Crawford  at  Malapi  and  ask 
him  about  me,"  the  young  fellow  suggested. 

"How  long  you  ride  for  him?" 

"Three  years  comin'  grass." 

"How  do  I  know  you're  the  man  you  say  you  are?" 

"One  of  yore  boys  knows  me  —  Bud  Holway." 

West  grunted  again.  He  knew  Emerson  Crawford 
well.  He  was  a  level-headed  cowman  and  his  word  was 
as  good  as  his  bond.  If  Em  said  this  young  man  was 
trustworthy,  the  shipper  was  willing  to  take  a  chance  on 
him.  The  honest  eye,  the  open  face,  the  straightfor- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  71 

ward  manner  of  the  youth  recommended  his  ability  and 
integrity.  The  shipper  was  badly  in  need  of  a  man.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  wire. 

"Let  you  know  later,"  he  said,  and  for  the  moment 
dropped  Dave  out  of  the  conversation. 

But  before  noon  he  sent  for  him. 

"I've  heard  from  Crawford,"  he  said,  and  mentioned 
terms. 

"  Whatever 's  fair,"  agreed  Dave. 

An  hour  later  he  was  in  the  caboose  of  a  cattle  train 
rolling  eastward.  He  was  second  in  command  of  a  ship- 
ment consigned  to  the  Denver  Terminal  Stockyards 
Company.  Most  of  them  were  shipped  by  the  West 
Cattle  Company.  An  odd  car  was  a  jackpot  bunch  of 
pickups  composed  of  various  brands.  All  the  cars  were 
packed  to  the  door,  as  was  the  custom  of  those  days. 

After  the  train  had  settled  down  to  the  chant  of  the 
rails  Garrison  sent  Dave  on  a  tour  of  the  cars.  The 
young  man  reported  all  well  and  returned  to  the  ca- 
boose. The  train  crew  was  playing  poker  for  small 
stakes.  Garrison  had  joined  them.  For  a  time  Dave 
watched,  then  read  a  four-day-old  newspaper  through 
to  the  last  advertisement.  The  hum  of  the  wheels  made 
him  drowsy.  He  stretched  out  comfortably  on  the  seat 
with  his  coat  for  a  pillow. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  beginning  to  get  dark.  Garri- 
son had  left  the  caboose,  evidently  to  have  a  look  at  the 
stock.  Dave  ate  some  crackers  and  cheese,  climbed  to 
the  roof,  and  with  a  lantern  hanging  on  his  arm  moved 
forward. 

Already  a  few  of  the  calves,  yielding  to  the  pressure 


72  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

in  the  heavily  laden  cars,  had  tried  to  escape  it  by  lying 
down.  With  his  prod  Dave  drove  back  the  nearest  ani- 
mal. Then  he  used  the  nail  in  the  pole  to  twist  the  tails 
of  the  calves  and  force  them  to  their  feet.  In  those  days 
of  crowded  cars  almost  the  most  important  thing  in 
transit  was  to  keep  the  cattle  on  their  legs  to  prevent 
any  from  being  trampled  and  smothered  to  death. 

As  the  night  grew  older  both  men  were  busier.  With 
their  lanterns  and  prod-poles  they  went  from  car  to  car 
relieving  the  pressure  wherever  it  was  greatest.  The 
weaker  animals  began  to  give  way,  worn  out  by  the 
heavy  lurching  and  the  jam  of  heavy  bodies  against 
them.  They  had  to  be  defended  against  their  own 
weakness. 

Dave  was  crossing  from  the  top  of  one  car  to  another 
when  he  heard  his  name  called.  He  knew  the  voice  be- 
longed to  Garrison  and  he  listened  to  make  sure  from 
which  car  it  came.  Presently  he  heard  it  a  second  time 
and  localized  the  sound  as  just  below  him.  He  entered 
the  car  by  the  end  door  near  the  roof. 

"Hello!   Call  me?  "he  asked. 

"  Yep.  I  done  fell  and  bust  my  laig.  Can  you  get  me 
out  a  here?" 

"Bad,  is  it?" 

"Broken."  |& 

"I'll  get  some  of  the  train  hands.  Will  ybu  be  all 
right  till  I  get  back?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"I  reckon.  Hop  along  lively.  I'm  right  in  the  jam 
here." 

The  conductor  stopped  the  train.  With  the  help  of 
the  crew  Dave  got  Garrison  back  to  the  caboose.  There 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  73 

was  no  doubt  that  the  leg  was  broken.  It  was  decided  to 
put  the  injured  man  off  at  the  next  station,  send  him 
back  by  the  up  train,  and  wire  West  that  Dave  would 
see  the  cattle  got  through  all  right.  This  was  done. 

Dave  got  no  more  sleep  that  night.  He  had  never 
been  busier  in  his  life.  Before  morning  broke  half  the 
calves  were  unable  to  keep  their  feet.  The  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  reload. 

He  went  to  the  conductor  and  asked  for  a  siding.  The 
man  running  the  train  was  annoyed,  but  he  did  not  say 
so.  He  played  for  time. 

"All  right.  We'll  come  to  one  after  a  while  and  I'll 
put  you  on  it,"  he  promised. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  train  rumbled  merrily  past  a 
siding  without  stopping.  Dave  walked  back  along  the 
roof  to  the  caboose. 

"We've  just  passed  a  siding,"  he  told  the  trainman. 

"  Could  n't  stop  there.  A  freight  behind  us  has  orders 
to  take  that  to  let  the  Limited  pass,"  he  said  glibly. 

Dave  suspected  he  was  lying,  but  he  could  not  prove 
it.  He  asked  where  the  next  siding  was. 

"A  little  ways  down,"  said  a  brakeman. 

The  puncher  saw  his  left  eyelid  droop  in  a  wink  to  the 
conductor.  He  knew  now  that  they  were  "stalling"  for 
time.  Thcrend  of  their  run  lay  only  thirty  miles  away. 
They  had  no  intention  of  losing  two  or  three  hours' 
time  while  the  cattle  were  reloaded.  After  the  train 
reached  the  division  point  another  conductor  and  crew 
would  have  to  wrestle  with  the  problem. 

Young  Sanders  felt  keenly  his  inexperience.  They 
were  taking  advantage  of  him  because  he  was  a  boy. 


74  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  had  a  right  to  insist  on 
a  siding,  but  it  was  not  his  business  to  decide  which  one. 

The  train  rolled  past  another  siding  and  into  the 
yards  of  the  division  town.  At  once  Dave  hurried  to  the 
station.  The  conductor  about  to  take  charge  of  the 
train  was  talking  with  the  one  just  leaving.  The  range- 
rider  saw  them  look  at  him  and  laugh  as  he  approached. 
His  blood  began  to  warm. 

"I  want  you  to  run  this  train  onto  a  siding,"  he  said 
at  once. 

"You  the  train  dispatcher?"  asked  the  new  man 
satirically. 

"You  know  who  I  am.  I'll  say  right  now  that  the 
cattle  on  this  train  are  suffering.  Some  won't  last  an- 
other hour.  I'm  goin'  to  reload." 

"Are  you?  I  guess  not.  This  train 's  going  out  soon  as 
we've  changed  engines,  and  that'll  be  in  about  seven 
minutes." 

"I '11  not  go  with  it." 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  the  officer  jauntily,  and  turned 
away  to  talk  with  the  other  man. 

Dave  walked  to  the  dispatcher's  office.  The  cow- 
puncher  stated  his  case. 

"Fix  that  up  with  the  train  conductor,"  said  the  dis- 
patcher. "He  can  have  a  siding  whenever  he  wants  it." 

"But  he  won't  gimme  one." 

"Not  my  business." 

"Whose  business  is  it?" 

The  dispatcher  got  busy  over  his  charts.  Dave  be- 
came aware  that  he  was  going  to  get  no  satisfaction  here. 

He  tramped  back  to  the  platform. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  75 

"All  aboard,"  sang  out  the  conductor. 

Dave,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  swung  on  to  the 
caboose  as  it  passed.  He  sat  down  on  the  steps  and  put 
his  brains  at  work.  There  must  be  a  way  out,  if  he  could 
only  find  what  it  was.  The  next  station  was  fifteen 
miles  down  the  line.  Before  the  train  stopped  there 
Dave  knew  exactly  what  he  meant  to  do.  He  wrote  out 
two  messages.  One  was  to  the  division  superintendent. 
The  other  was  to  Henry  B.  West. 

He  had  swung  from  the  steps  of  the  caboose  and  was 
in  the  station  before  the  conductor. 

"I  want  to  send  two  telegrams,"  he  told  the  agent. 
"Here  they  are  all  ready.  Rush 'em  through.  I  want  an 
answer  here  to  the  one  to  the  superintendent." 

The  wire  to  the  railroad  official  read: 

Conductor  freight  number  17  refuses  me  siding  to  reload 
stock  in  my  charge.  Cattle  down  and  dying.  Serve  notice 
herewith  I  put  responsibility  for  all  loss  on  railroad.  Will 
leave  cars  in  charge  of  train  crew. 

DAVID  SANDERS 
Representing  West  Cattle  Company 

The  other  message  was  just  as  direct. 

Conductor  refuses  me  siding  to  reload.  Cattle  suffering  and 
dying.  Have  wired  division  superintendent.  Will  refuse  re- 
sponsibility and  leave  train  unless  siding  given  me. 

DAVE  SANDERS 

The  conductor  caught  the  eye  of  the  agent. 

"I'll  send  the  wires  when  I  get  time,"  said  the  latter 
to  the  cowboy. 

"  You  '11  send  'em  now  —  right  now,"  announced 
Dave. 


76  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

"Say,  are  you  the  president  of  the  road?  ''  bristled  the 
agent. 

"You'll  lose  yore  job  within  forty-eight  hours  if  you 
don't  send  them  telegrams  now.  I'll  see  to  that  per- 
sonal." Dave  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  him  stead- 

ily. 

The  conductor  spoke  to  the  agent,  nodding  his  head 
insolently  toward  Dave.  "Young-man-heap-swelled- 
head,"  he  introduced  him. 

But  the  agent  had  had  a  scare.  It  was  his  job  at  stake, 
not  the  conductor's.  He  sat  down  sulkily  and  sent  the 
messages. 

The  conductor  read  his  orders  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Number  17  leaving.  All  aboard,"  he  called  back 
insolently. 

"I'm  stayin'  here  till  I  hear  from  the  superintend- 
ent," answered  Dave  flatly.  "You  leave  an'  you've  got 
them  cattle  to  look  out  for.  They'll  be  in  yore  care." 

The  conductor  swaggered  out  and  gave  the  signal  to 
go.  The  train  drew  out  from  the  station  and  disappeared 
around  a  curve  in  the  track.  Five  minutes  later  it 
backed  in  again.  The  conductor  was  furious. 

"  Get  aboard  here,  you  hayseed,  if  you  're  goin'  to  ride 
with  me!"  he  yelled. 

Dave  was  sitting  on  the  platform  whittling  a  stick. 
His  back  was  comfortably  resting  against  a  truck. 
parently  he  had  not  heard. 

The  conductor  strode  up  to  him  and  looked  down  at 
the  lank  boy.  "Say,  are  you  comin'  or  ain't  you?"  he 
shouted,  as  though  he  had  been  fifty  yards  away  instead 
of  four  feet. 


GUK  SIGHT  PASS  77 

"Talkin'  to  me?"  Dave  looked  up  with  amiable  sur- 
prise. "Why,  no,  not  if  you're  in  a  hurry.  I'm  waitin' 
to  hear  from  the  superintendent." 

"If  you  think  any  boob  can  come  along  and  hold  my 
train  up  till  I  lose  my  right  of  way  you've  got  another 
guess  comin'.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  sidetracked  by  every 
train  on  the  division." 

"That's  the  company's  business,  not  mine.  I'm  in- 
terested only  in  my  cattle." 

The  conductor  had  a  reputation  as  a  bully.  He  had 
intended  to  override  this  young  fellow  by  weight  of  age, 
authority,  and  personality.  That  he  had  failed  filled 
him  with  rage. 

"Say,  for  half  a  cent  I'd  kick  you  into  the  middle  of 
next  week,"  he  said,  between  clamped  teeth. 

The  cowpuncher's  steel-blue  eyes  met  his  steadily. 
"Do  you  reckon  that  would  be  quite  safe?"  he  asked 
mildly. 

That  was  a  question  the  conductor  had  been  asking 
himself.  He  did  not  know.  A  good  many  cowboys  car- 
ried six-shooters  tucked  away  on  their  ample  persons. 
It  was  very  likely  this  one  had  not  set  out  on  his  long 
journey  without  one. 

« "You're  more  obstinate  than  a  Missouri  mule,"  the 
railroad  man  exploded.  "I  don't  have  to  put  up  with 
you,  and  I  won't!" 

"No?" 

The  agent  came  out  from  the  station  waving  two  slips 
of  paper.  "Heard  from  the  super,"  he  called. 

One  wire  was  addressed  to  Dave,  the  other  to  the  con- 
ductor. Dave  read: 


78  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Am  instructing  conductor  to  put  you  on  siding  and  place 
train  crew  under  your  orders  to  reload. 

Beneath  was  the  signature  of  the  superintendent. 

The  conductor  flushed  purple  as  he  read  the  orders 
sent  by  his  superior. 

"Well,"  he  stormed  at  Dave.  "What  do  you  want? 
Spit  it  out!" 

"Run  me  on  the  siding.  I'm  gonna  take  the  calves 
out  of  the  cars  and  tie  'em  on  the  feed-racks  above." 

"How 're  you  goin'  to  get  'em  up?" 

"Elbow  grease." 

"If  you  think  I'll  turn  my  crew  into  freight  elevators 
because  some  fool  cattleman  did  n't  know  how  to  load 
right—" 

"Maybe  you've  got  a  kick  comin'.  I'll  not  say  you 
have  n't.  But  this  is  an  emergency.  I'm  willin'  to  pay 
good  money  for  the  time  they  help  me."  Dave  made  no 
reference  to  the  telegram  in  his  hand.  He  was  giving  the 
conductor  a  chance  to  save  his  face. 

"Oh,  well,  that 's  different.  I '11  put  it  up  to  the  boys." 

Three  hours  later  the  wheels  were  once  more  moving 
eastward.  Dave  had  had  the  calves  roped  down  to  the 
feed-racks  above  the  cars. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  NIGHT  CLERK  GETS  BUSY  PRONTO 

THE  stars  were  out  long  before  Dave's  train  drew  into 
the  suburbs  of  Denver.  It  crawled  interminably  through 
squalid  residence  sections,  warehouses,  and  small  manu- 
factories, coming  to  a  halt  at  last  in  a  wilderness  of 
tracks  on  the  border  of  a  small,  narrow  stream  flowing 
sluggishly  between  wide  banks  cut  in  the  clay. 

Dave  swung  down  from  the  caboose  and  looked  round 
in  the  dim  light  for  the  stockyards  engine  that  was  to 
pick  up  his  cars  and  run  them  to  the  unloading  pens. 
He  moved  forward  through  the  mud,  searching  the 
semi-darkness  for  the  switch  engine.  It  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

He  returned  to  the  caboose.  The  conductor  and 
brakemen  were  just  leaving. 

6  'My  engine's  not  here.  Some  one  must 'a'  slipped  up 
on  his  job,  looks  like.  Where  are  the  stockyards?" 
Sanders  asked. 

The  conductor  was  a  small,  middle-aged  man  who 
made  it  his  business  to  get  along  with  everybody  he 
could.  He  had  distinctly  refused  to  pick  up  his  prede- 
cessor's quarrel  with  Dave.  Now  he  stopped  and 
scratched  his  head. 

"Too  bad.  Can't  you  go  uptown  and  'phone  out  to 
the  stockyards?  Or  if  you  want  to  take  a  street-car  out 
there  you  '11  have  time  to  hop  one  at  Stout  Street.  Last 
one  goes  about  midnight." 


80  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

In  those  days  the  telephone  was  not  a  universal  ne- 
cessity. Dave  had  never  used  one  and  did  not  know 
how  to  get  his  connection.  He  spent  several  minutes 
ringing  up,  shouting  at  the  operator,  and  trying  to  un- 
derstand what  she  told  him.  He  did  not  shout  at  the 
girl  because  he  was  annoyed.  His  idea  was  that  he 
would  have  to  speak  loud  to  have  his  voice  carry.  At 
last  he  gave  up,  hot  and  perspiring  from  the  mental 
exertion. 

Outside  the  drug-store  he  just  had  time  to  catch  the 
last  stockyards  car.  His  watch  told  him  that  it  was  two 
minutes  past  twelve. 

He  stepped  forty-five  minutes  later  into  an  office  in 
which  sat  two  men  with  their  feet  on  a  desk.  The  one  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  was  a  smug,  baldish  young  man  with 
clothes  cut  in  the  latest  mode.  He  was  rather  heavy-set 
and  looked  flabby.  The  other  man  appeared  to  be  a  vis- 
itor. 

"This  the  office  of  the  Denver  Terminal  Stockyards 
Company?"  asked  Dave. 

The  clerk  looked  the  raw  Arizonan  over  from  head  to 
foot  and  back  again.  The  judgment  that  he  passed  was 
indicated  by  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"Name's  on  the  door,  ain't  it?"  he  asked  supercili- 
ously. 

"You  in  charge  here?" 

The  clerk  was  amused,  or  at  least  took  the  trouble  to 
seem  so.  "You  might  think  so,  might  n't  you?" 

"Are  you  in  charge?"  asked  Dave  evenly. 

"Maybeso.   What  you  want?" 

"I  asked  you  if  you  was  runnin'  this  office." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  81 

"Hell,  yes!  What 're  your  eyes  for?" 

The  clerk's  visitor  sniggered. 

"I've  got  a  train  of  cattle  on  the  edge  of  town,"  ex- 
plained Dave.  "The  stockyards  engine  did  n't  show  up." 

"Consigned  to  us?" 

"To  the  Denver  Terminal  Stockyards  Company." 

"Name  of  shipper?" 

"West  Cattle  Company  and  Henry  B.  West." 

"All  right.  I'll  take  care  of  'em."  The  clerk  turned 
back  to  his  friend.  His  manner  dismissed  the  cow- 
puncher.  ' '  And  she  says  to  me,  '  I  'd  love  to  go  with  you, 
Mr.  Edmonds;  you  dance  like  an  angel.'  Then  I 
says  — " 

"When?"  interrupted  Dave  calmly,  but  those  who 
knew  him  might  have  guessed  his  voice  was  a  little  too 
gentle. 

"I  says,  'You're  some  little  kidder,'  and  — " 

"When?" 

The  man  who  danced  like  an  angel  turned  halfway 
round,  and  looked  at  the  cowboy  over  his  shoulder.  He 
was  irritated. 

"When  what?"  he  snapped. 

"When  you  goin'  to  onload  my  stock?" 

"In  the  morning." 

"No,  sir.  You'll  have  it  done  right  now.  That  stock 
has  been  more'n  two  days  without  water." 

"I'm  not  responsible  for  that." 

"No,  but  you'll  be  responsible  if  the  train  ain't  on- 
loaded  now,"  said  Dave. 

"It  won't  hurt  'em  to  wait  till  morning." 

"That's  where  you're  wrong.   They're  sufferin'.   All 


82  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

of  'em  are  alive  now,  but  they  won't  all  be  by  mo'nin' 
if  they  ain't  'tended  to." 

"Guess  I'll  take  a  chance  on  that,  since  you  say  it's 
my  responsibility,"  replied  the  clerk  impudently. 

"Not  none,"  announced  the  man  from  Arizona. 
"You'll  get  busy  pronto." 

"Say,  is  this  my  business  or  yours?" 

"Mine  and  yours  both." 

"I  guess  lean  run  it.  If  I  need  any  help  from  you 
I'll  ask  for  it.  Watch  me  worry  about  your  old  cows. 
I  have  guys  coming  in  here  every  day  with  hurry-up 
tales  about  how  their  cattle  won't  live  unless  I  get  a 
wiggle  on  me.  I  notice  they  all  are  able  to  take  a  little 
nourishment  next  day  all  right,  all  right." 

Dave  caught  at  the  gate  of  the  railing  which  was  be- 
tween him  and  the  night  clerk.  He  could  not  find  the 
combination  to  open  it  and  therefore  vaulted  over.  He 
caught  the  clerk  back  of  the  neck  by  the  collar  and 
jounced  him  up  and  down  hard  in  his  chair. 

"You're  asleep,"  he  explained.  "I  got  to  waken  you 
up  before  you  can  sabe  plain  talk." 

The  clerk  looked  up  out  of  a  white,  frightened  face. 
"Say,  don't  do  that.  I  got  heart>  trouble,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  dry  as  a  whisper. 

"What  about  that  onloadin'  proposition?"  asked  the 
Arizonan. 

"I'll  see  to  it  right  away." 

Presently  the  clerk,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  was 
going  across  to  the  railroad  tracks  in  front  of  Dave.  He 
had  quite  got  over  the  idea  that  this  lank  youth  was  a 
safe  person  to  make  sport  of. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  83 

They  found  the  switch  crew  in  the  engine  of  the  cab 
playing  seven-up. 

"Got  a  job  for  you.  Train  of  cattle  out  at  the  junc- 
tion," the  clerk  said,  swinging  up  to  the  cab. 

The  men  finished  the  hand  and  settled  up,  but  within 
a  few  minutes  the  engine  was  running  out  to  the  freight 
train. 

Day  was  breaking  before  Dave  tumbled  into  bed.  He 
had  left  a  call  with  the  clerk  to  be  wakened  at  noon. 
When  the  bell  rang,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  not 
been  asleep  five  minutes. 

After  he  had  eaten  at  the  stockyards  hotel  he  went 
out  to  have  a  look  at  his  stock.  He  found  that  on  the 
whole  the  cattle  had  stood  the  trip  well.  While  he  was 
still  inspecting  them  a  voice  boomed  at  him  a  question. 

"Well,  young  fellow,  are  you  satisfied  with  all  the 
trouble  you've  made  me?" 

He  turned,  to  see  standing  before  him  the  owner  of 
the  Fifty-Four  Quarter  Circle  brand.  The  boy's  sur- 
prise fairly  leaped  from  his  eyes. 

"Did  n't  expect  to  see  me  here,  I  reckon,"  the  cattle- 
man went  on.  "Well,  I  hopped  a  train  soon  as  I  got 
yore  first  wire.  Spill  yore  story,  young  man." 

Dave  told  his  tale,  while  the  ranchman  listened  in 
grim  silence.  When  Sanders  had  finished,  the  owner  of 
the  stock  brought  a  heavy  hand  down  on  his  shoulder 
approvingly. 

"You  can  ship  cattle  for  me  long  as  you've  a  mind 
to,  boy.  You  fought  for  that  stock  like  as  if  it  had  been 
yore  own.  You  '11  do  to  take  along." 

Dave  flushed  with  boyish  pleasure.    He  had  not 


84  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

known  whether  the  cattleman  would  approve  what  he 
had  done,  and  after  the  long  strain  of  the  trip  this  en- 
dorsement of  his  actions  was  more  to  him  than  food  or 
drink. 

"They  say  I'm  kinda  stubborn.  I  did  n't  aim  to  lie 
down  and  let  those  guys  run  one  over  me,"  he  said. 

"Yore  stubbornness  is  money  in  my  pocket.  Do  you 
want  to  go  back  and  ride  for  the  Fifty-Four  Quarter 
Circle?" 

"Maybe,  after  a  while,  Mr.  West.  I  got  business  in 
Denver  for  a  few  days." 

The  cattleman  smiled.  "Most  of  my  boys  have  when 
they  hit  town,  I  notice." 

"Mine  ain't  that  kind.  I  reckon  it's  some  more 
stubbornness,"  explained  Dave. 

"All  right.  When  you've  finished  that  business  I  can 
use  you." 

If  Dave  could  have  looked  into  the  future  he  would 
have  known  that  the  days  would  stretch  into  months 
and  the  months  to  years  before  his  face  would  turn  to- 
ward ranch  life  again. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  LAW  PUZZLES  DAVE 

DAVE  knew  he  was  stubborn.  Not  many  men  would 
have  come  on  such  a  wild-goose  chase  to  Denver  in  the 
hope  of  getting  back  a  favorite  horse  worth  so  little  in 
actual  cash.  But  he  meant  to  move  to  his  end  intelli- 
gently. 

If  Miller  and  Doble  were  in  the  city  they  would  be 
hanging  out  at  some  saloon  or  gambling-house.  Once 
or  twice  Dave  dropped  in  to  Chuck  Weaver's  place, 
where  the  sporting  men  from  all  over  the  continent  in- 
evitably drifted  when  in  Denver.  But  he  had  little  ex- 
pectation of  finding  the  men  he  wanted  there.  These 
two  rats  of  the  underworld  would  not  attempt  to  fleece 
keen-eyed  professionals.  They  would  prey  on  the  un- 
sophisticated. 

His  knowledge  of  their  habits  took  him  to  that  part 
of  town  below  Lawrence  Street.  While  he  chatted  with 
his  foot  on  the  rail,  a  glass  of  beer  in  front  of  him,  he 
made  inconspicuous  inquiries  of  bartenders.  It  did  not 
take  him  long  to  strike  the  trail. 

"Two  fellows  I  knew  in  the  cattle  country  said  they 
were  comin'  to  Denver.  Wonder  if  they  did.  One  of 
'em's  a  big  fat  guy  name  o'  Miller  —  kinda  rolls  when 
he  walks.  Other's  small  and  has  a  glass  eye.  Called 
himself  George  Doble  when  I  knew  him." 

"Come  in  here  'most  every  day  —  both  of  'em. 
Waitin'  for  the  Festival  of  Mountain  and  Plain  to  open 


86  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

up.  Got  some  kinda  concession.  They  look  to  yours 
truly  like  —  " 

The  bartender  pulled  himself  up  short  and  began 
polishing  the  top  of  the  bar  vigorously.  He  was  a  gos- 
sipy soul,  and  more  than  once  his  tongue  had  got  him 
into  trouble. 

"You  was  sayin'  —  "  suggested  the  cowboy. 

" — that  they're  good  spenders,  as  the  fellow  says," 
amended  the  bartender,  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 

"When  I  usta  know  'em  they  had  a  mighty  cute  little 
trick  pony  —  name  was  Chiquito,  seems  to  me.  Ever 
hear  'em  mention  it?" 

"They  was  fussin'  about  that  horse  to-day.  Seems 
they  got  an  offer  for  him  and  Doble  wants  to  sell.  Mil- 
ler he  says  no." 

"Yes?" 

"I'll  tell  'em  a  friend  asked  for  'em.  What  name?" 

"Yes,  do.   Jim  Smith." 

"The  fat  old  gobbler's  liable  to  drop  in  any  time 
now." 

This  seemed  a  good  reason  to  Mr.  Jim  Smith,  alias 
David  Sanders,  for  dropping  out.  He  did  not  care  to 
have  Miller  know  just  yet  who  the  kind  friend  was  that 
had  inquired  for  him. 

But  just  as  he  was  turning  away  a  word  held  him  for 
a  moment.  The  discretion  of  the  man  in  the  apron  was 
not  quite  proof  against  his  habit  of  talk. 

"They  been  quarrelin'  a  good  deal  together.  I  ex- 
pect the  combination  is  about  ready  to  bust  up,"  he 
whispered  confidentially. 

"Quarrelin'?  What  about?" 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  87 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  They  act  like  they're  sore  as  a  boil  at 
each  other.  Honest,  I  thought  they  was  goin'  to  mix  it 
yesterday.  I  breezed  up  wit'  a  bottle  an'  they  kinda 
cooled  off." 

"Doble  drunk?" 

"Nope.  Fact  is,  they'd  trimmed  a  Greeley  boob  and 
was  rowin'  about  the  split.  Miller  he  claimed  Doble 
held  out  on  him.  I'll  bet  he  did  too." 

Dave  did  not  care  how  much  they  quarreled  or  how 
soon  they  parted  after  he  had  got  back  his  horse.  Until 
that  time  he  preferred  that  they  would  give  him  only 
one  trail  to  follow  instead  of  two. 

The  cowpuncher  made  it  his  business  to  loaf  on 
Larimer  Street  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  His  beat  was 
between  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  Streets,  usually  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road  from  the  Klondike  Saloon. 

About  four  o'clock  his  patience  was  rewarded.  Miller 
came  rolling  along  in  a  sort  of  sailor  fashion  character- 
istic of  him.  Dave  had  just  time  to  dive  into  a  pawn- 
broker's shop  unnoticed. 

A  black-haired,  black-eyed  salesman  came  forward 
to  wait  on  him.  The  puncher  cast  an  eye  helplessly 
about  him.  It  fell  on  a  suitcase. 

"How  much?"  he  asked. 

"Seven  dollars.   Dirt  sheap,  my  frient." 

"Got  any  telescope  grips?" 

The  salesman  produced  one.  Dave  bought  it  because 
he  did  not  knoV/  how  to  escape  without. 

He  carried  it  with  him  while  he  lounged  up  and  down 
the  sidewalk  waiting  for  Miller  to  come  out  of  the 
Klondike.  When  the  fat  gambler  reappeared,  the  range- 


88  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

rider  fell  in  behind  him  unobserved  and  followed  up- 
town past  the  Tabor  Opera  House  as  far  as  California 
Street.  Here  they  swung  to  the  left  to  Fourteenth, 
where  Miller  disappeared  into  a  rooming-house. 

The  amateur  detective  turned  back  toward  the  busi- 
ness section.  On  the  way  he  dropped  guiltily  the  tele- 
scope grip  into  a  delivery  wagon  standing  in  front  of  a 
grocery.  He  had  no  use  for  it,  and  he  had  already  come 
to  feel  it  a  white  elephant  on  his  hands. 

With  the  aid  of  a  city  directory  Dave  located  the 
livery  stables  within  walking  distance  of  the  house 
where  Miller  was  staying.  Inspired  perhaps  by  the 
nickel  detective  stories  he  had  read,  the  cowboy  bought 
a  pair  of  blue  goggles  and  a  "store"  collar.  In  this  last, 
substituted  for  the  handkerchief  he  usually  wore  loosely 
round  his  throat,  the  sleuth  nearly  strangled  himself  for 
lack  of  air.  His  inquiries  at  such  stables  as  he  found 
brought  no  satisfaction.  Neither  Miller  nor  the  pinto 
had  been  seen  at  any  of  them. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  met  Henry  B.  West  at  the 
St.  James  Hotel. 

"How's  that  business  of  yore's  gettin'  along,  boy?" 
asked  the  cattleman  with  a  smile. 

"Don5  know  yet.  Say,  Mr.  West,  if  I  find  a  hawss 
that's  been  stole  from  me,  how  can  I  get  it  back?" 

"Some  one  steal  a  hawss  from  you?" 

,Dave  told  his  story.   West  listened  to  a  finish. 

"I  know  a  lawyer  here.  We'll  ask  him  what  to  do," 
the  ranchman  said. 

They  found  the  lawyer  at  the  Athletic  Club.  West 
stated  the  case. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  89 

"Your  remedy  is  to  replevin.  If  they  fight,  you'll 
have  to  bring  witnesses  to  prove  ownership." 

"Bring  witnesses  from  Malapi!  Why,  I  can't  do 
that,"  said  Dave,  staggered.  "I  ain't  got  the  money. 
Why  can't  I  just  take  the  hawss?  It's  mine." 

"The  law  does  n't  know  it's  yours." 

Dave  left  much  depressed.  Of  course  the  thieves 
would  go  to  a  lawyer,  and  of  course  he  would  tell  them 
to  fight.  The  law  was  a  darned  queer  thing.  It  made 
the  recovery  of  his  property  so  costly  that  the  crooks 
who  stole  it  could  laugh  at  him. 

"Looks  like  the  law's  made  to  protect  scalawags  in- 
stead of  honest  folks,"  Dave  told  West. 

"I  don't  reckon  it  is,  but  it  acts  that  way  some- 
times," admitted  the  cattleman.  "You  can  see  yoreself 
it  would  n't  do  for  the  law  to  say  a  fellow  could  get 
property  from  another  man  by  just  say  in'  it  was  his. 
Sorry,  Sanders.  After  all,  a  bronc's  only  a  bronc.  I'll 
give  you  yore  pick  of  two  hundred  if  you  come  back 
with  me  to  the  ranch." 

"Much  obliged,  seh.   Maybe  I  will  later." 

The  cowpuncher  walked  the  streets  while  he  thought 
it  over.  He  had  no  intention  whatever  of  giving  up 
Chiquito  if  he  could  find  the  horse.  So  far  as  the  law 
went  he  was  in  a  blind  alley.  He  was  tied  hand  and 
foot.  That  possession  was  nine  points  before  the  courts 
he  had  heard  before. 

The  way  to  recover  flashed  to  his  brain  like  a  wave 
of  light.  He  must  get  possession.  All  he  had  to  do  was 
to  steal  his  own  horse  and  make  for  the  hills.  If  the 
thieves  found  him  later  —  and  the  chances  were  that 


90  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

they  would  not  even  attempt  pursuit  if  he  let  them 
know  who  he  was  —  he  would  force  them  to  the  ex- 
pense of  going  to  law  for  Chiquito.  What  was  sauce  for 
the  goose  must  be  for  the  gander  too. 

Dave's  tramp  had  carried  him  across  the  Platte  into 
North  Denver.  On  his  way  back  he  passed  a  corral 
close  to  the  railroad  tracks.  He  turned  in  to  look  over 
the  horses. 

The  first  one  his  eyes  fell  on  was  Chiquito. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
FOR  MURDER 

DAVE  whistled.  The  pony  pricked  up  its  ears,  looked 
round,  and  came  straight  to  him.  The  young  man  laid 
his  face  against  the  soft,  silky  nose,  fondled  it,  whis- 
pered endearments  to  his  pet.  He  put  the  bronco 
through  its  tricks  for  the  benefit  of  the  corral  attendant. 

"Well,  I'll  be  doggoned,"  that  youth  commented. 
"The  little  pinto  sure  is  a  wonder.  Acts  like  he  knows 
you  mighty  well." 

"Ought  to.  I  trained  him.  Had  him  before  Miller 
got  him." 

"Bet  you  hated  to  sell  him." 

"You  know  it."  Dave  moved  forward  to  his  end,  the 
intention  to  get  possession  of  the  horse.  He  spoke  in 
a  voice  easy  and  casual.  "Saw  Miller  a  while  ago. 
They're  talkin'  about  sellin'  the  paint  hawss,  him  and 
his  pardner  Doble.  I'm  to  saddle  up  and  show  what 
Chiquito  can  do." 

"Say,  that's  a  good  notion.  If  I  was  a  buyer  I'd  pay 
ten  bucks  more  after  you  'd  put  him  through  that  circus 
stuff." 

"Which  is  Miller's  saddle?"  When  it  was  pointed 
out  to  him,  Dave  examined  it  and  pretended  to  dis- 
approve. ' fi  Too  heavy.  Lend  me  a  lighter  one,  can't  you  ?  " 

"Sure.   Here's  three  or  four.   Help  yourself." 

The  wrangler  moved  into  the  stable  to  attend  to  his 
work. 


92  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave  cinched,  swung  to  the  saddle,  and  rode  to  the 
gate  of  the  corral.  Two  men  were  coming  in,  and  by  the 
sound  of  their  voices  were  quarreling.  They  stepped 
aside  to  let  him  pass,  one  on  each  side  of  the  gate,  so 
that  it  was  necessary  to  ride  between  them. 

They  recognized  the  pinto  at  the  same  moment  Dave 
did  them.  On  the  heels  of  that  recognition  came  an- 
other. 

Doble  ripped  out  an  oath  and  a  shout  of  warning. 
"It's  Sanders!" 

A  gun  flashed  as  the  pony  jumped  to  a  gallop.  The 
silent  night  grew  noisy  with  shots,  voices,  the  clatter 
of  hoofs.  Twice  Dave  fired  answers  to  the  challenges 
which  leaped  out  of  the  darkness  at  him.  He  raced 
across  the  bridge  spanning  the  Platte  and  for  a  moment 
drew  up  on  the  other  side  to  listen  for  sounds  which 
might  tell  him  whether  he  would  be  pursued.  One  last 
solitary  revolver  shot  disturbed  the  stillness. 

The  rider  grinned.  "Think  he'd  know  better  than  to 
shoot  at  me  this  far." 

He  broke  his  revolver,  extracted  the  empty  shells, 
and  dropped  them  to  the  street.  Then  he  rode  up  the 
long  hill  toward  Highlands,  passed  through  that  suburb 
of  the  city,  and  went  along  the  dark  and  dusty  road  to 
the  shadows  of  the  Rockies  silhouetted  in  the  night  sky. 

His  flight  had  no  definite  objective  except  to  put  as 
much  distance  between  himself  and  Denver  as  possible. 
He  knew  nothing  about  the  geography  of  Colorado,  ex- 
cept that  a  large  part  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  a 
delectable  city  called  Denver  lived  there.  His  train  trip 
to  it  had  told  him  that  one  of  its  neighbors  was  New 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  93 

Mexico,  which  was  in  turn  adjacent  to  Arizona.  There- 
fore he  meant  to  get  to  New  Mexico  as  quickly  as 
Chiquito  could  quite  comfortably  travel. 

Unfortunately  Dave  was  going  west  instead  of  south. 
Every  step  of  the  pony  was  carrying  him  nearer  the 
roof  of  the  continent,  nearer  the  passes  of  the  front 
range  which  lead,  by  divers  valleys  and  higher  moun- 
tains beyond,  to  the  snowclad  regions  of  eternal  white. 

Up  in  this  altitude  it  was  too  cold  to  camp  out  with- 
out a  fire  and  blankets. 

"I  reckon  we'll  keep  goin',  old  pal,"  the  young  man 
told  his  horse.  "I've  noticed  roads  mostly  lead  some- 
wheres." 

Day  broke  over  valleys  of  swirling  mist  far  below  the 
rider.  The  sun  rose  and  dried  the  moisture.  Dave 
looked  down  on  a  town  scattered  up  and  down  a  gulch. 

He  met  an  ore  team  and  asked  the  driver  wiiat  town 
it  was.  The  man  looked  curiously  at  him. 

"Why,  it's  Idaho  Springs,"  he  said.  "Where  you 
come  from?" 

Dave  eased  himself  in  the  saddle.  "From  the  South- 
west." 

"You're  quite  a  ways  from  home.  I  reckon  your  hills 
ain't  so  uncurried  down  there,  are  they?" 

The  cowpuncher  looked  over  the  mountains.  He  was 
among  the  summits,  aglow  in  the  amber  light  of  day 
with  the  many  blended  colors  of  wild  flowers.  "We  got 
some  down  there,  too,  that  don't  fit  a  lady's  boodwar. 
Say,  if  I  keep  movin'  where '11  this  road  take  me?" 

The  man  with  the  ore  team  gave  information.  It 
struck  Dave  that  he  had  run  into  a  blind  alley. 


94  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"If  you're  after  a  job,  I  reckon  you  can  find  one  at 
some  of  the  mines.  They're  needin'  hands,"  the  team- 
ster added. 

Perhaps  this  was  the  best  immediate  solution  of  the 
problem.  The  puncher  nodded  farewell  and  rode  down 
into  the  town. 

He  left  Chiquito  at  a  livery  barn,  after  having  per- 
sonally fed  and  watered  the  pinto,  and  went  himself  to 
a  hotel.  Here  he  registered,  not  under  his  own  name, 
ate  breakfast,  and  lay  down  for  a  few  hours'  sleep. 
When  he  awakened  he  wrote  a  note  with  the  stub  of  a 
pencil  to  Bob  Hart.  It  read: 

Well,  Bob,  I  done  got  Chiquito  back  though  it  sure  looked 
like  I  wasnt  going  to  but  you  never  can  tell  and  as  old  Buck 
Byington  says  its  a  hell  of  a  long  road  without  no  bend  in  it 
and  which  you  can  bet  your  boots  the  old  alkali  is  right  at 
that.  Well  I  found  the  little  pie-eater  in  Denver  O  K  but  so 
gaunt  he  wont  hardly  throw  a  shadow  and  what  can  you  ex- 
pect of  scalawags  like  Miller  and  Doble  who  dont  know  how  to 
treat  a  horse.  Well  I  run  Chiquito  off  right  under  their  noses 
and  we  had  a  little  gun  play  and  made  my  getaway  and  I 
reckon  I  will  stay  a  spell  and  work  here.  Well  good  luck  to  all 
the  boys  till  I  see  them  again  in  the  sweet  by  and  by. 

DAVE 

P.S.  Get  this  money  order  cashe?*  old-timer  and  pay  the 
boys  what  I  borrowed  when  we  hit  the  trail  after  Miller  and 
Doble.  I  lit  out  to  sudden  to  settle.  Five  to  Steve  and  five  to 
Buck.  Well  so  long. 

DAVE 

The  puncher  went  to  the  post-office,  got  a  money 
order,  and  mailed  the  letter,  after  which  he  returned  to 
the  hotel.  He  intended  to  eat  dinner  and  then  look  for 
work. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  95 

Three  or  four  men  were  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
hotel  talking  with  the  proprietor.  Dave  was  quite 
close  before  the  Boniface  saw  him. 

"That's  him,"  the  hotel-keeper  said  in  an  excited 
whisper. 

A  brown-faced  man  without  a  coat  turned  quickly 
and  looked  at  Sanders.  He  wore  a  belt  with  cartridges 
and  a  revolver. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  demanded. 

Dave  knew  at  once  this  man  was  an  officer  of  the  law. 
He  knew,  too,  the  futility  of  trying  to  escape  under  the 
pseudonym  he  had  written  on  the  register. 

"Sanders  —  Dave  Sanders." 

"I  want  you." 

"So?  Who  are  you?" 

"Sheriff  of  the  county." 

"Whadjawant  me  for?" 

"Murder." 

Dave  gasped.  His  heart  beat  fast  with  a  prescience 
of  impending  disaster.  "Murder,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"You're  charged  with  the  murder  of  George  Doble 
last  night  in  Denver." 

The  boy  stared  a  him  with  horror-stricken  eyes. 
"Doble?  My  God,  did  I  kill  him?"  He  clutched  at  a 
porch  post  to  steady  himself.  The  hills  were  sliding 
queerly  up  into  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
TEN  YEARS 

ALL  the  way  back  to  Denver,  while  the  train  ran  down 
through  the  narrow,  crooked  canon,  Dave's  mind  dwelt 
in  a  penumbra  of  horror.  It  was  impossible  he  could 
have  killed  Doble,  he  kept  telling  himself.  He  had  fired 
back  into  the  night  without  aim.  He  had  not  even  tried 
to  hit  the  men  who  were  shooting  at  him.  It  must  be 
some  ghastly  joke. 

None  the  less  he  knew  by  the  dull  ache  in  his  heart 
that  this  awful  thing  had  fastened  on  him  and  that  he 
would  have  to  pay  the  penalty.  He  had  killed  a  man, 
snuffed  out  his  life  wantonly  as  a  result  of  taking  the 
law  into  his  own  hands.  The  knowledge  of  what  he  had 
done  shook  him  to  the  soul. 

It  remained  with  him,  in  the  background  of  his  mind, 
up  to  and  through  his  trial.  What  shook  his  nerve  was 
the  fact  that  he  had  taken  a  life,  not  the  certainty  of 
the  punishment  that  must  follow. 

West  called  to  see  him  at  the  jail,  and  to  the  cattle- 
man Dave  told  the  story  exactly  as  it  had  happened. 
The  owner  of  the  Fifty-Four  Quarter  Circle  walked  up 
and  down  the  cell  rumpling  his  hair. 

"Boy,  why  didn't  you  let  on  to  me  what  you  was 
figurin'  on  pullin'  off?  I  knew  you  was  some  bull- 
haided,  but  I  thought  you  had  a  lick  o'  sense  left." 

"Wisht  I  had,"  said  Dave  miserably. 

"Well,  what's  done's  done.    No  use  cryin'  over  the 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  97 

bust-up.  We'd  better  fix  up  whatever  5s  left  from  the 
smash.  First  off,  we'll  get  a  lawyer,  I  reckon." 

"I  gotta  liT  money  left  —  twenty-six  dollars,"  spoke 
up  Dave  timidly.  "Maybe  that's  all  he'll  want." 

West  smiled  at  this  babe  in  the  woods.  "It'll  last  as 
long  as  a  snowball  in  you-know- where  if  he's  like  some 
lawyers  I've  met  up  with." 

It  did  not  take  the  lawyer  whom  West  engaged  long 
to  decide  on  the  line  the  defense  must  take.  "We'll 
show  that  Miller  and  Doble  were  crooks  and  that  they 
had  wronged  Sanders.  That  will  count  a  lot  with  a 
jury,"  he  told  West.  "We'll  admit  the  killing  and  claim 
self-defense." 

The  day  before  the  trial  Dave  was  sitting  in  his  cell 
cheerlessly  reading  a  newspaper  when  visitors  were  an- 
nounced. At  sight  of  Emerson  Crawford  and  Bob  Hart 
he  choked  in  his  throat.  Tears  brimmed  in  his  eyes. 
Nobody  could  have  been  kinder  to  him  than  West  had 
been,  but  these  were  home  folks.  He  had  known  them 
many  years.  Their  kindness  in  coming  melted  his 
heart. 

He  gripped  their  hands,  but  found  himself  unable  to 
say  anything  in  answer  to  their  greetings.  He  was  afraid 
to  trust  his  voice,  and  he  was  ashamed  of  his  emotion. 

"The  boys  are  for  you  strong,  Dave.  We  all  figure 
you  done  right.  Steve  he  says  he  would  n't  worry  none 
if  you  'd  got  Miller  too,"  Bob  breezed  on. 

"Tha's  no  way  to  talk,  son,"  reproved  Crawford. 
"It's  bad  enough  right  as  it  is  without  you  boys  wantin* 
it  any  worse.  But  don't  you  get  downhearted,  Dave. 
We're  allowin'  to  stand  by  you  to  a  finish.  It  ain't  as 


98  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

if  you  'd  got  a  good  man.  Doble  was  a  mean-hearted 
scoundrel  if  ever  I  met  up  with  one.  He's  no  loss  to 
society.  We're  goin'  to  show  the  jury  that  too." 

They  did.  By  the  time  Crawford,  Hart,  and  a  pair 
of  victims  who  had  been  trapped  by  the  sharpers  had 
testified  about  Miller  and  Doble,  these  worthies  had 
no  shred  of  reputation  left  with  the  jury.  It  was  shown 
that  they  had  robbed  the  defendant  of  the  horse  he  had 
trained  and  that  he  had  gone  to  a  lawyer  and  found  no 
legal  redress  within  his  means. 

But  Dave  was  unable  to  prove  self-defense.  Miller 
stuck  doggedly  to  his  story.  The  cowpuncher  had  fired 
the  first  shot.  He  had  continued  to  fire,  though  he  must 
have  seen  Doble  sink  to  the  ground  immediately.  More- 
over, the  testimony  of  the  doctor  showed  that  the  fatal 
shot  had  taken  effect  at  close  range. 

Just  prior  to  this  time  there  had  been  an  unusual 
number  of  killings  in  Denver.  The  newspapers  had 
stirred  up  a  public  sentiment  for  stricter  enforcement  of 
law.  They  had  claimed  that  both  judges  and  juries 
were  too  easy  on  the  gunmen  who  committed  these 
crimes.  Now  they  asked  if  this  cowboy  killer  was  going 
to  be  allowed  to  escape.  Dave  was  tried  when  this  wave 
of  feeling  was  at  its  height  and  he  was  a  victim  of  it. 

The  jury  found  him  guilty  of  murder  in  the  second 
degree.  The  judge  sentenced  him  to  ten  years  in  the 
penitentiary. 

When  Bob  Hart  came  to  say  good-bye  before  Dave 
was  removed  to  Canon  City,  the  young  range-rider  al- 
most broke  down.  He  was  greatly  distressed  at  the  mis- 
fortune that  had  befallen  his  friend. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  99 

"We're  gonna  stay  with  this,  Dave.  You  know 
Crawford.  He  goes  through  when  he  starts.  Soon  as 
there's  a  chance  we'll  hit  the  Governor  for  a  pardon. 
It's  a  damn  shame,  old  pal.  Tha's  what  it  is." 

Dave  nodded.  A  lump  in  his  throat  interfered  with 
speech. 

"The  ol'  man  lent  me  money  to  buy  Chiquito,  and 
I  'm  gonna  keep  the  pinto  till  you  get  out.  That  '11  help 
pay  yore  lawyer,"  continued  Bob.  "One  thing  more. 
You're  not  the  only  one  that's  liable  to  be  sent  up. 
Miller's  on  the  way  back  to  Malapi.  If  he  don't  get  a 
term  for  hawss-stealin',  I'm  a  liar.  We  got  a  dead  open- 
and-shut  case  against  him." 

The  guard  who  was  to  take  Dave  to  the  penitentiary 
bustled  in  cheerfully.  "All  right,  boys.  If  you're  ready 
we'll  be  movin'  down  to  the  depot." 

The  friends  shook  hands  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 
IN  DENVER 

THE  warden  handed  him  a  ticket  back  to  Denver,  and 
with  it  a  stereotyped  little  lecture  of  platitudes. 

"Your  future  lies  before  you  to  be  made  or  marred  by 
yourself,  Sanders.  You  owe  it  to  the  Governor  who  has 
granted  this  parole  and  to  the  good  friends  who  have 
worked  so  hard  for  it  that  you  be  honest  and  industrious 
and  temperate.  If  you  do  this  the  world  will  in  time  for- 
get your  past  mistakes  and  give  you  the  right  hand  of 
fellowship,  as  I  do  now." 

The  paroled  man  took  the  fat  hand  proffered  him  be- 
cause he  knew  the  warden  was  a  sincere  humanitarian. 
He  meant  exactly  what  he  said.  Perhaps  he  could  not 
help  the  touch  of  condescension.  But  patronage,  no 
matter  how  kindly  meant,  was  one  thing  this  tall, 
straight  convict  would  not  stand.  He  was  quite  civil, 
but  the  hard,  cynical  eyes  made  the  warden  uncomfort- 
able. Once  or  twice  before  he  had  known  prisoners  like 
this,  quiet,  silent  men  who  were  never  insolent,  but 
whose  eyes  told  him  that  the  iron  had  seared  their  souls. 

The  voice  of  the  warden  dropped  briskly  to  business. 
"Seen  the  bookkeeper?  Everything  all  right,  I  sup- 
pose/' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good.   Well,  wish  you  luck." 

"Thanks." 

The  convict  turned  away,  grave,  unsmiling. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  101 

The  prison  officer's  eyes  followed  him  a  little  wist- 
fully. His  function,  as  he  understood  it,  was  to  win 
these  men  back  to  fitness  for  service  to  the  society  which 
had  shut  them  up  for  their  misdeeds.  They  were  not 
wild  beasts.  They  were  human  beings  who  had  made  a 
misstep.  Sometimes  he  had  been  able  to  influence  men 
strongly,  but  he  felt  that  it  had  not  been  true  of  this 
puncher  from  the  cow  country. 

Sanders  walked  slowly  out  of  the  office  and  through 
the  door  in  the  wall  that  led  back  to  life.  He  was  free. 
To-morrow  was  his.  All  the  to-morrows  of  all  the  years 
of  his  life  were  waiting  for  him.  But  the  fact  stirred  in 
him  no  emotion.  As  he  stood  in  the  dry  Colorado  sun- 
shine his  heart  was  quite  dead. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  imprisonment  it  had  not 
been  so.  He  had  dreamed  often  of  this  hour.  At  night, 
in  the  darkness  of  his  cell,  imagination  had  projected 
picture  after  picture  of  it,  vivid,  colorful,  set  to  music. 
But  his  parole  had  come  too  late.  The  years  had  taken 
their  toll  of  him.  The  shadow  of  the  prison  had  left  its 
chill,  had  done  something  to  him  that  had  made  him  a 
different  David  Sanders  from  the  boy  who  had  entered. 
He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  learn  to  laugh  again,  if  he 
would  ever  run  to  meet  life  eagerly  as  that  other  David 
Sanders  had  a  thousand  years  ago. 

He  followed  the  road  down  to  the  little  station  and 
took  a  through  train  that  came  puffing  out  of  the  Royal 
Gorge  on  its  way  to  the  plains.  Through  the  crowd  at 
the  Denver  depot  he  passed  into  the  city,  moving  up 
Seventeenth  Street  without  definite  aim  or  purpose. 
His  parole  had  come  unexpectedly,  so  that  none  of  his 


102  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

friends  could  meet  him  even  if  they  had  wanted  to  do  so. 
He  was  glad  of  this.  He  preferred  to  be  alone,  especially 
during  these  first  days  of  freedom.  It  was  his  intention 
to  go  back  to  Malapi,  to  the  country  he  knew  and  loved, 
but  he  wished  to  pick  up  a  job  in  the  city  for  a  month  or 
two  until  he  had  settled  into  a  frame  of  mind  in  which 
liberty  had  become  a  habit. 

Early  next  morning  he  began  his  search  for  work.  It 
carried  him  to  a  lumber  yard  adjoining  the  railroad  yards. 

"We  need  a  night  watchman,"  the  superintendent 
said.  "  Where 'd  you  work  last?" 

"At  Canon  City." 

The  lumberman  looked  at  him  quickly,  a  question  in 
his  glance. 

"Yes,"  Dave  went  on  doggedly.  "In  the  peniten- 
tiary." 

A  moment's  awkward  embarrassment  ensued. 

"What  were  you  in  for?" 

"Killing  a  man." 

"Too  bad.   I'm  afraid—" 

"He  had  stolen  my  horse  and  I  was  trying  to  get  it 
back.  I  had  no  intention  of  hitting  him  when  I  fired," 

"I'd  take  you  in  a  minute  so  far  as  I'm  concerned 
personally,  but  our  board  of  directors  —  afraid  they 
wouldn't  like  it.  That's  one  trouble  in  working  for  a 
corporation." 

Sanders  turned  away.  The  superintendent  hesitated, 
then  called  after  him. 

"If  you're  up  against  it  and  need  a  dollar  — " 

"Thanks.  I  don't.  I'm  looking  for  work,  not  char- 
ity," the  applicant  said  stiffly. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  10.3 

Wherever  he  went  it  was  the  same.  As  soon  as  he 
mentioned  the  prison,  doors  of  opportunity  closed  to 
him.  Nobody  wanted  to  employ  a  man  tarred  with  that 
pitch.  It  did  not  matter  why  he  had  gone,  under  what 
provocation  he  had  erred.  The  thing  that  damned  him 
was  that  he  had  been  there.  It  was  a  taint,  a  corrosion. 

He  could  have  picked  up  a  job  easily  enough  if  he  had 
been  willing  to  lie  about  his  past.  But  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  tell  the  truth.  In  the  long  run  he  could  not 
conceal  it.  Better  start  with  the  slate  clean. 

When  he  got  a  job  it  was  to  unload  cars  of  fruit  for  a 
commission  house.  A  man  was  wanted  in  a  hurry  and 
the  employer  did  not  ask  any  questions.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour  he  was  satisfied. 

"Fellow  hustles  peaches  like  he'd  been  at  it  all  his 
life,"  the  commission  man  told  his  partner. 

A  few  days  later  came  the  question  that  Sanders  had 
been  expecting.  "  Where  'd  you  work  before  you  came 
to  us?" 

"At  the  penitentiary." 

"A  guard?"  asked  the  merchant,  taken  aback. 

"No.  I  was  a  convict."  The  big  lithe  man  in  overalls 
spoke  quietly,  his  eyes  meeting  those  of  the  Market 
Street  man  with  unwavering  steadiness. 

"What  was  the  trouble?" 

Dave  explained.  The  merchant  made  no  comment, 
but  when  he  paid  off  the  men  Saturday  night  he  said 
with  careful  casualness,  "Sorry,  Sanders.  The  work 
will  be  slack  next  week.  I'll  have  to  lay  you  off." 

The  man  from  Canon  City  understood.  He  looked 
for  another  place,  was  rebuffed  a  dozen  times,  and  at 


104  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

last  was  given  work  by  an  employer  who  had  vision 
enough  to  know  the  truth  that  the  bad  men  do  not  all  go 
to  prison  and  that  some  who  go  may  be  better  than 
those  who  do  not. 

In  this  place  Sanders  lasted  three  weeks.  He  was  do- 
ing concrete  work  on  a  viaduct  job  for  a  contractor  em- 
ployed by  the  city. 

This  time  it  was  a  fellow- workman  who  learned  of  the 
Arizonan's  record.  A  letter  from  Emerson  Crawford, 
forwarded  by  the  warden  of  the  penitentiary,  dropped 
out  of  Dave's  coat  pocket  where  it  hung  across  a  plank. 

The  man  who  picked  it  up  read  the  letter  before  re- 
turning it  to  the  pocket.  He  began  at  once  to  whisper 
the  news.  The  subject  was  discussed  back  and  forth 
among  the  men  on  the  quiet.  Sanders  guessed  they 
had  discovered  who  he  was,  but  he  waited  for  them  to 
move.  His  years  in  prison  had  given  him  at  least  the 
strength  of  patience.  He  could  bide  his  time. 

They  went  to  the  contractor.  He  reasoned  with  them. 

"Does  his  work  all  right,  does  n't  he?  Treats  you  all 
civilly.  Does  n't  force  himself  on  you.  I  don't  see  any 
harm  in  him." 

"We  ain't  workin'  with  no  jail  bird,"  announced  the 
spokesman. 

"He  told  me  the  story  and  I've  looked  it  up  since. 
Talked  with  the  lawyer  that  defended  him.  He  says  the 
man  Sanders  killed  was  a  bad  lot  and  had  stolen  his 
horse  from  him.  Sanders  was  trying  to  get  it  back.  He 
claimed  self-defense,  but  could  n't  prove  it." 

"Don't  make  no  difference.  The  jury  said  he  was 
guilty,  didn't  it?" 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  105 

"Suppose  he  was.  We've  got  to  give  him  a  chance 
when  he  comes  out,  have  n't  we?" 

Some  of  the  men  began  to  weaken.  They  were  not 
cruel,  but  they  were  children  of  impulse,  easily  led  by 
those  who  had  force  enough  to  push  to  the  front. 

"I  won't  mix  cement  with  no  convict,"  the  self-ap- 
pointed leader  announced  flatly.  "That  goes." 

The  contractor  met  him  eye  to  eye.  "You  don't  have 
to,  Reynolds.  You  can  get  your  time." 

"Meanin'  that  you  keep  him  on  the  job  and  let  me 
go?" 

"  That 's  it  exactly.  Long  as  he  does  his  work  well  I  '11 
not  ask  him  to  quit." 

A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway  of  the  temporary 
office.  The  Arizonan  stepped  in  with  his  easy,  swinging 
stride,  a  lithe,  straight-backed  Hermes  showing  strength 
of  character  back  of  every  movement. 

"I'm  leaving  to-day,  Mr.  Shields."  His  voice  carried 
the  quiet  power  of  reserve  force. 

"Not  because  I  want  you  to,  Sanders." 

"Because  I'm  not  going  to  stay  and  make  you  trou- 
ble." 

"I  don't  think  it  will  come  to  that.  I'm  talking  it 
over  with  the  boys  now.  Your  work  stands  up.  I've  no 
criticism." 

"I'll  not  stay  now,  Mr.  Shields.  Since  they've  com- 
plained to  you  I'd  better  go." 

The  ex-convict  looked  around,  the  eyes  in  his  sar- 
donic face  hard  and  bitter.  If  he  could  have  read  the 
thoughts  of  the  men  it  would  have  been  different.  Most 
of  them  were  ashamed  of  their  protest.  They  would 


106  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

have  liked  to  have  drawn  back,  but  they  did  not  know 
how  to  say  so.  Therefore  they  stood  awkwardly  silent. 
Afterward,  when  it  was  too  late,  they  talked  it  over 
freely  enough  and  blamed  each  other. 

From  one  job  to  another  Dave  drifted.  His  stubborn 
pride,  due  in  part  to  a  native  honesty  that  would  not  let 
him  live  under  false  pretenses,  in  part  to  a  bitterness 
that  had  become  dogged  defiance,  kept  him  out  of  good 
places  and  forced  him  to  do  heavy,  unskilled  labor  that 
brought  the  poorest  pay. 

Yet  he  saved  money,  bought  himself  good,  cheap 
clothes,  and  found  energy  to  attend  night  school  where 
he  studied  stationary  and  mechanical  engineering.  He 
lived  wholly  within  himself,  his  mental  reactions  tinged 
with  morose  scorn.  He  found  little  comfort  either  in 
himself  or  in  the  external  world,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  determined  with  all  his  stubborn  will  to  get 
ahead. 

The  library  he  patronized  a  good  deal,  but  he  gave  no 
time  to  general  literature.  His  reading  was  of  a  highly 
specialized  nature.  He  studied  everything  that  he  coula 
find  about  the  oil  fields  of  America. 

The  stigma  of  his  disgrace  continued  to  raise  its  head. 
One  of  the  concrete  workers  was  married  to  the  sister  of 
the  woman  from  whom  he  rented  his  room.  The  quiet, 
upstanding  man  who  never  complained  or  asked  any 
privileges  had  been  a  favorite  of  heVs,  but  she  was  a 
timid,  conventional  soul.  Visions  of  her  roomers  depart- 
ing in  a  flock  when  they  found  out  about  the  man  in  the 
second  floor  back  began  to  haunt  her  dreams.  Per- 
haps he  might  rob  them  all  at  night.  In  a  moment  of 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  107 

nerve  tension,  summoning  all  her  courage,  she  asked 
thl  killer  from  the  cattle  country  if  he  would  mind 
leaving. 

He  smiled  grimly  and  began  to  pack.  For  several 
days  he  had  seen  it  coming.  When  he  left,  the  express- 
man took  his  trunk  to  the  station.  The  ticket  which 
Sanders  bought  showed  Malapi  as  his  destination. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
DAVE  MEETS  TWO  FRIENDS  AND  A  FOE 

IN  the  early  morning  Dave  turned  to  rest  his  cramped 
limbs.  He  was  in  a  day  coach,  and  his  sleep  through  the 
night  had  been  broken.  The  light  coming  from  the  win- 
dow woke  him.  He  looked  out  on  the  opalescent  dawn 
of  the  desert,  and  his  blood  quickened  at  sight  of  the  en- 
chanted mesa.  To  him  came  that  joyous  thrill  of  one 
who  comes  home  to  his  own  after  years  of  exile. 

Presently  he  saw  the  silvery  sheen  of  the  mesquite 
when  the  sun  is  streaming ,  westward.  Dust  eddies 
whirled  across  the  barranca.  The  prickly  pear  and  the 
palo  verde  flashed  past,  green  splashes  against  a  back- 
ground of  drab.  The  pudgy  creosote,  the  buffalo  grass, 
the  undulation  of  sand  hills  were  an  old  story,  but  to-day 
his  eyes  devoured  thenj  hungrily.  The  wonderful  effect 
of  space  and  light,  the  cloud  skeins  drawn  out  as  by 
some  invisible  hand,  the  brown  ribbon  of  road  that  wan- 
dered over  the  hill:  they  brought  to  him  an  emotion 
poignant  and  surprising. 

The  train  slid  into  a  narrow  valley  bounded  by  hills 
freakishly  eroded  to  fantastic  shapes.  Pinon  trees  fled 
to  the  rear.  A  sheep  corral  fenced  with  brush  and 
twisted  roots,  in  which  were  long,  shallow  feed  troughs 
and  flat-roofed  sheds,  leaped  out  of  nowhere,  was  for  a 
few  moments,  and  vanished  like  a  scene  in  a  moving  pic- 
ture. A  dim,  gray  mass  of  color  on  a  hillside  was  agi- 
tated like  a  sea  wave.  It  was  a  flock  of  sheep  moving 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  109 

toward  the  corral.  For  an  instant  Dave  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  dog  circling  the  huddled  pack;  then  dog  and  sheep 
were  out  of  sight  together. 

The  pictures  stirred  memories  of  the  acrid  smoke  of 
hill  camp-fires,  of  nights  under  a  tarp  with  the  rain  beat- 
ing down  on  him,  and  still  others  of  a  road  herd  bawling 
for  water,  of  winter  camps  when  the  ropes  were  frozen 
stiff  and  the  snow  slid  from  trees  in  small  avalanches. 

At  the  junction  he  took  the  stage  for  Malapi.  Already 
he  could  see  that  he  was  going  into  a  new  world,  one 
altogether  different  from  that  he  had  last  seen  here. 
These  men  were  not  cattlemen.  They  talked  the  vocab- 
ulary of  oil.  They  had  the  shrewd,  keen  look  of  the 
driller  and  the  wildcatter.  They  were  full  of  nervous 
energy  that  oozed  out  in  constant  conversation. 

"Jackpot  Number  Three  lost  a  string  o'  tools  yester- 
day. While  they're  fishin',  Steelman'll  be  drillin'  hella- 
mile.  You  got  to  sit  up  all  night  to  beat  that  Coal  Oil 
Johnny,"  one  wrinkled  little  man  said. 

A  big  man  in  boots  laced  over  corduroy  trousers 
nodded.  "He's  smooth  as  a  pump  plunger,  and  he  sure 
has  luck.  He  can  buy  up  a  dry  hole  any  old  time  and 
it'll  be  a  gusher  in  a  week.  He'll  bust  Em  Crawford 
high  and  dry  before  he  finishes  with  him.  Em  had  ought 
to  'a'  stuck  to  cattle.  That's  one  game  he  knows  from 
hoof  to  hide." 

"Sure.  Em's  got  no  business  in  oil.  Say,  do  you 
know  when  they're  expectin'  Shiloh  Number  Two  in?" 

"She's  into  the  sand  now,  but  still  dry  as  a  cork  leg. 
That's  liable  to  put  a  crimp  in  Em's  bank  roll,  don't  you 
reckon?" 


110  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Yep.  Old  Man  Hard  Luck's  campin*  on  his  trail 
sure  enough.  The  banks  '11  be  shakin'  their  heads  at  his 
paper  soon." 

The  stage  had  stopped  to  take  on  a  mailsack.  Now  it 
started  again,  and  the  rest  of  the  talk  was  lost  to  Dave. 
But  he  had  heard  enough  to  guess  that  the  old  feud 
between  Crawford  and  Steelman  had  taken  on  a  new 
phase,  one  in  which  his  friend  was  likely  to  get  the 
worst  of  it. 

At  Malapi  Dave  descended  from  the  stage  into  a  town 
he  hardly  knew.  It  had  the  same  wide  main  street,  but 
the  business  section  extended  five  blocks  instead  of  one. 
Everywhere  oil  dominated  the  place.  Hotels,  restaur- 
ants, and  hardware  stores  jostled  saloons  and  gambling- 
houses.  Tents  had  been  set  up  in  vacant  lots  beside 
frame  buildings,  and  in  them  stores,  rooming-houses, 
and  lunch-counters  were  doing  business.  Everybody 
was  in  a  hurry.  The  street  was  filled  with  men  who  had 
to  sleep  with  one  eye  open  lest  they  miss  the  news  of 
some  new  discovery. 

The  town  was  having  growing-pains.  One  contractor 
was  putting  down  sidewalks  in  the  same  street  where 
another  laid  sewer  pipe  and  a  third  put  in  telephone 
poles.  A  branch  line  of  a  trans-continental  railroad  was 
moving  across  the  desert  to  tap  the  new  oil  field.  Houses 
rose  overnight.  Mule  teams  jingled  in  and  out  freight- 
ing supplies  to  Malapi  and  from  there  to  the  fields.  On 
all  sides  were  rustle,  energy,  and  optimism,  signs  of  the 
new  West  in  the  making. 

Up  the  street  a  team  of  half -broken  broncos  came  on 
the  gallop,  weaving  among  the  traffic  with  a  certainty 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  111 

that  showed  a  skilled  pair  of  hands  at  the  reins.  From 
the  blackboard  stepped  lightly  a  straight-backed,  well- 
muscled  young  fellow.  He  let  out  a  moment  later  a  sur- 
prised shout  of  welcome  and  fell  upon  Sanders  with  two 
brown  fists. 

"Dave!  Where  in  Mexico  you  been,  old  alkali?  We 
been  lookin'  for  you  everywhere." 

"In  Denver,  Bob." 

Sanders  spoke  quietly.  His  eyes  went  straight  into 
those  of  Bob  Hart  to  see  what  was  written  there.  He 
found  only  a  glad  and  joyous  welcome,  neither  embar- 
rassment nor  any  sign  of  shame. 

"But  wliy  did  n't  you  write  and  let  us  know?"  Bob 
grew  mildly  profane  in  his  warmth.  He  was  as  easy  as 
though  his  friend  had  come  back  from  a  week  in  the  hills 
on  a  deer  hunt.  "We  did  n't  know  when  the  Governor 
was  goin'  to  act.  Or  we  'd  'a'  been  right  at  the  gate,  me 
or  Em  Crawford  one.  Why  n't  you  answer  our  letters, 
you  darned  old  scalawag?  Dawggone,  but  I'm  glad  to 
see  you." 

Dave's  heart  warmed  to  this  fine  loyalty.  He  knew 
that  both  Hart  and  Crawford  had  worked  in  season  and 
out  of  season  for  a  parole  or  a  pardon.  But  it 's  one  thing 
to  appear  before  a  pardon  board  for  a  convict  in  whom 
you  are  interested  and  quite  another  to  welcome  him  to 
your  heart  when  he  stands  before  you.  Bob  would  do  to 
tie  to,  Sanders  told  himself  with  a  rush  of  gratitude. 
None  of  this  feeling  showed  in  his  dry  voice. 

"Thanks,  Bob." 

Hart  knew  already  that  Dave  had  come  back  a 
changed  man.  He  had  gone  in  a  boy,  wild,  turbulent, 


112  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

untamed.  He  had  come  out  tempered  by  the  fires  of 
experience  and  discipline.  The  steel-gray  eyes  were  no 
longer  frank  and  gentle.  They  judged  warily  and  in- 
scrutably. He  talked  little  and  mostly  in  monosylla- 
bles. It  was  a  safe  guess  that  he  was  master  of  his 
impulses.  In  his  manner  was  a  cold  reticence  entirely 
foreign  to  the  Dave  Sanders  his  friend  had  known  and 
frolicked  with.  Bob  felt  in  him  a  quality  of  dangerous 
strength  as  hard  and  cold  as  hammered  iron. 

"Where's  yore  trunk?  I'll  take  it  right  up  to  my 
shack,"  Hart  said. 

"I've  rented  a  room." 

"Well,  you  can  onrent  it.  You're  stayin'  with 
me." 

"No,  Bob.  I  reckon  I  won't  do  that.  I'll  live  alone 
awhile." 

"No,  sir.  What  do  you  take  me  for?  We'll  load  yore 
things  up  on  the  buckboard." 

Dave  shook  his  head.  "I'm  much  obliged,  but  I'd 
rather  not  yet.  Got  to  feel  out  my  way  while  I  learn  the 
range  here." 

To  this  Bob  did  not  consent  without  a  stiff  protest, 
but  Sanders  was  inflexible. 

"All  right.  Suit  yoreself.  You  always  was  stubborn 
as  a  Missouri  mule,"  Hart  said  with  a  grin.  "Anyhow, 
you'll  eat  supper  with  me.  Le's  go  to  the  Delmonico 
for  ol'  times'  sake.  We'll  see  if  Hop  Lee  knows  you. 
I '11  bet  he  does." 

Hart  had  come  in  to  see  a  contractor  about  building  a 
derrick  for  a  well.  "I  got  to  see  him  now,  Dave.  Go 
along  with  me,"  he  urged. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  113 

"No,  see  you  later.  Want  to  get  my  trunk  from  the 
depot." 

They  arranged  an  hour  of  meeting  at  the  restaurant. 

In  front  of  the  post-office  Bob  met  Joyce  Crawford. 
The  young  woman  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  her  girl- 
hood. As  she  moved  down  the  street,  tall  and  slender, 
there  was  a  light,  joyous  freedom  in  her  step.  So  Ellen 
Terry  walked  in  her  resilient  prime. 

"Miss  Joyce,  he's  here,"  Bob  said. 

"Who  — Dave?" 

She  and  her  father  and  Bob  had  more  than  once  met 
as  a  committee  of  three  to  discuss  the  interests  of  San- 
ders both  before  and  since  his  release.  The  week  after  he 
left  Canon  City  letters  of  thanks  had  reached  both  Hart 
and  Crawford,  but  these  had  given  no  address.  Their 
letters  to  him  had  remained  unanswered  nor  had  a  de- 
tective agency  been  able  to  find  him. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Dave!  He's  right  here  in  town.  Met 
him  half  an  hour  ago." 

"I'm  glad.   How  does  he  look?" 

"He's  grown  older,  a  heap  older.  And  he's  different. 
You  know  what  an  easy-goin'  kid  he  was,  always 
friendly  and  happy  as  a  half-grown  pup.  Well,  he  ain't 
thataway  now.  Looks  like  he  never  would  laugh  again 
real  cheerful.  I  don't  reckon  he  ever  will.  He 's  done  got 
the  prison  brand  on  him  for  good.  I  could  n't  see  my  old 
Dave  in  him  a- tall.  He's  hard  as  nails  —  and  bitter." 

The  brown  eyes  softened.  "He  would  be,  of  course. 
How  could  he  help  it?" 

"And  he  kinda  holds  you  off.  He's  been  hurt  bad  and 
ain't  takin'  no  chances  whatever,  don't  you  reckon?" 


114  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Do  you  mean  he's  broken?" 

"Not  a  bit.  He's  strong,  and  he  looks  at  you  straight 
and  hard.  But  they've  crushed  all  the  kid  outa  him. 
He  was  a  mighty  nice  boy,  Dave  was.  I  hate  to  lose 
him." 

"When  can  I  see  him?"  she  asked. 

Bob  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  got  an  appointment  to 
meet  him  at  Delmonico's  right  now.  Maybe  I  can  get 
him  to  come  up  to  the  house  afterward." 

Joyce  was  a  young  woman  who  made  swift  decisions. 
"I'll  go  with  you  now,"  she  said. 

Sanders  was  standing  in  front  of  the  restaurant,  but 
he  was  faced  in  the  other  direction.  His  flat,  muscular 
back  was  rigid.  In  his  attitude  was  a  certain  tenseness, 
as  though  his  body  was  a  bundle  of  steel  springs  ready 
to  be  released. 

Bob's  eye  traveled  swiftly  past  him  to  a  fat  man  roll- 
ing up  the  street  on  the  opposite  sidewalk.  "It's  Ad 
Miller,  back  from  the  pen.  I  heard  he  got  out  this 
week,"  he  told  the  girl  in  a  low  voice. 

Joyce  Crawford  felt  the  blood  ebb  from  her  face.  It 
was  as  though  her  heart  had  been  drenched  with  ice 
water.  What  was  going  to  take  place  between  these 
men?  Were  they  armed?  Would  the  gambler  recognize 
his  old  enemy? 

She  knew  that  each  was  responsible  for  the  other's 
prison  sentence.  Sanders  had  followed  the  thieves  to 
Denver  and  found  them  with  his  horse.  The  fat  crook 
had  lied  Dave  into  the  penitentiary  by  swearing  that 
the  boy  had  fired  the  first  shots.  Now  they  were  meet- 
ing for  the  first  time  since. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  115 

Miller  had  been  drinking.  The  stiff  precision  of  his 
gait  showed  that.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  he 
would  pass  without  noticing  the-  man  across  the  road. 
Then,  by  some  twist  of  chance,  he  decided  to  take  the 
sidewalk  on  the  other  side.  The  sign  of  the  Delnionico 
had  caught  his  eye  and  he  remembered  that  he  was 
hungry. 

He  took  one  step  —  and  stopped.  He  had  recognized 
Sanders.  His  eyes  narrowed.  The  head  on  his  short, 
red  neck  was  thrust  forward. 

"  Goddlemighty ! "  he  screamed,  and  next  moment  was 
plucking  a  revolver  from  under  his  left  armpit. 

Bob  caught  Joyce  and  swept  her  behind  him,  covering 
her  with  his  body  as  best  he  could.  At  the  same  time 
Sanders  plunged  forward,  arrow-straight  and  swift. 
The  revolver  cracked.  It  spat  fire  a  second  time,  a 
third.  The  tiger-man,  head  low,  his  whole  splendid  body 
vibrant  with  energy,  hurled  himself  across  the  road  as 
though  he  had  been  flung  from  a  catapult.  A  streak  of 
fire  ripped  through  his  shoulder.  Another  shot  boomed 
almost  simultaneously.  He  thudded  hard  into  the  fat 
paunch  of  the  gunman.  They  went  down  together. 

The  fingers  of  Dave's  left  hand  closed  on  the  fat 
wrist  of  the  gambler.  His  other  hand  tore  the  revolver 
away  from  the  slack  grasp.  The  gun  rose  and  fell. 
Miller  went  into  unconsciousness  without  even  a  groan. 
The  corrugated  butt  of  the  gun  had  crashed  down  on 
his  forehead. 

•  Dizzily  Sanders  rose.  He  leaned  against  a  telephone 
pole  for  support.  The  haze  cleared  to  show  him  the 
white,  anxious  face  of  a  young  woman. 


116  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked. 

Dave  looked  at  Joyce,  wondering  at  her  presence 
here.  "He's  the  one  that's  hurt,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"I  thought  —  I  was  afraid-  '  Her  voice  died  away. 
She  felt  her  knees  grow  weak.  To  her  this  man  had  ap- 
peared to  be  plunging  straight  to  death. 

No  excitement  in  him  reached  the  surface.  His  re- 
markably steady  eyes  still  held  their  grim,  hard  tense- 
ness, but  otherwise  his  self-control  was  perfect.  He  was 
absolutely  imperturbable. 

"He  was  shootin'  wild.  Sorry  you  were  here,  Miss 
Crawford."  His  eyes  swept  the  gathering  crowd. 
"You'd  better  go,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"Yes. . .  .You  come  too,  please."  The  girl's  voice  broke. 

"Don't  worry.  It's  all  over."  He  turned  to  the 
crowd.  "He  began  shootin' at  me.  I  was  unarmed.  He 
shot  four  times  before  I  got  to  him." 

"Tha's  right.  I  saw  it  from  up  street,"  a  stranger 
volunteered.  "Where  do  you  take  out  yore  insurance, 
friend?  I'd  like  to  get  some  of  the  same." 

"I'll  be  in  town  here  if  I'm  wanted,"  Dave  an- 
nounced before  he  came  back  to  where  Bob  and  Joyce 
were  standing.  "Now  we'll  move,  Miss  Crawford." 

At  the  second  street  corner  he  stopped,  evidently  in- 
tending to  go  no  farther.  "I'll  say  good-bye,  for  this 
time.  I  '11  want  to  see  Mr.  Crawford  right  soon.  How  is 
little  Keith  comin'  on?" 

She  had  mentioned  that  the  boy  frequently  spoke  of 
him. 

"Can  you  come  up  to  see  Father  to-night?  Or  he'll 
go  to  your  room  if  you'd  rather." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  117 

"Maybe  to-morrow  — " 

"He'll  be  anxious  to  see  you.  I  want  you  and  Bob  to 
come  to  dinner  Sunday." 

"Don't  hardly  think  I'll  be  here  Sunday.  My  plans 
are  n't  settled.  Thank  you  just  the  same,  Miss  Craw- 
ford." 

She  took  his  words  as  a  direct  rebuff.  There  was  a 
little  lump  in  her  throat  that  she  had  to  get  rid  of  before 
she  spoke  again. 

"Sorry.  Perhaps  some  other  time."  Joyce  gave  him 
her  hand.  "I'm  mighty  glad  to  have  seen  you  again, 
Mr.  Sanders." 

He  bowed.   "Thank  you." 

After  she  had  gone,  Dave  turned  swiftly  to  his  friend. 
"Where's  the  nearest  doctor's  office?  Miller  got  me  in 
the  shoulder." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OIL 

"I'LL  take  off  my  hat  to  Dave/5  said  Hart  warmly. 
"He's  chain  lightnin'.  I  never  did  see  anything  like  the 
way  he  took  that  street  in  two  jumps.  And  game?  Did 
you  ever  hear  tell  of  an  unarmed  man  chargin'  a  guy 
with  a  gun  spittin'  at  him?" 

"I  always  knew  he  had  sand  in  his  craw.  What  does 
Doc  Green  say?"  asked  Crawford,  lighting  a  corncob 
pipe. 

"Says  nothin'  to  worry  about.  A  flesh  wound  in  the 
shoulder.  Ought  to  heal  up  in  a  few  days." 

Miss  Joyce  speaking,  with  an  indignant  tremor  of  the 
voice:  "It  was  the  most  cowardly  thing  I  ever  saw.  He 
was  unarmed,  and  he  had  n't  lifted  a  finger  when  that 
ruffian  began  to  shoot.  I  was  sure  he  would  be  ... 
killed." 

"He'll  take  a  heap  o'  killin',  that  boy,"  her  father 
reassured.  "In  a  way  it's  a  good  thing  this  happened 
now.  His  enemies  have  showed  their  hand.  They  tried 
to  gun  him,  before  witnesses,  while  he  was  unarmed. 
Whatever  happens  now,  Dave's  got  public  sentiment  on 
his  side.  I'm  always  glad  to  have  my  enemy  declare 
himself.  Then  I  can  take  measures." 

"What  measures  can  Dave  take?"  asked  Joyce. 

A  faint,  grim  smile  flitted  across  the  old  cattleman's 
face.  "Well,  one  measure  he'll  take  pronto  will  be  a 
good  six-shooter  on  his  hip.  One  I  '11  take  will  be  to  send 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  119 

Miller  back  to  the  pen,  where  he  belongs,  soon  as  I  can 
get  court  action.  He's  out  on  parole,  like  Dave  is.  All 
the  State  has  got  to  do  is  to  reach  out  and  haul  him  back 
again." 

"If  it  can  find  him,"  added  Bob  dryly.  "I'll  bet  it 
can't.  He's  headed  for  the  hills  or  the  border  right 
now." 

Crawford  rose.  "Well,  I'll  run  down  with  you  to  his 
room  and  see  the  boy,  Bob.  Wisht  he  would  come  up 
and  stay  with  us.  Maybe  he  will." 

To  the  cattleman  Dave  made  light  of  his  wound.  He 
would  be  all  right  in  a  few  days,  he  said.  It  was  only  a 
scratch. 

"Tha's  good,  son,"  Crawford  answered.  "Well,  now, 
what  are  you  aimin*  to  do?  I  got  a  job  for  you  on  the 
ranch  if  tha's  what  you  want.  Or  I  can  use  you  in  the 
oil  business.  It's  for  you  to  say  which." 

"Oil,"  said  Dave  without  a  moment  of  hesitation.  "I 
want  to  learn  that  business  from  the  ground  up.  I've 
been  reading  all  I  could  get  on  the  subject." 

"Good  enough,  but  don't  you  go  to  playin'  geology 
too  strong,  Dave.  Oil  is  where  it's  at.  The  formation 
don't  amount  to  a  damn.  You  '11  find  it  where  you  find 
it." 

"Mr.  Crawford  ain't  strong  for  the  scientific  sharps 
since  a  college  professor  got  him  to  drill  a  nice  straight 
hole  on  Round  Top  plumb  halfway  to  China,"  drawled 
Bob  with  a  grin. 

"I  suppose  it's  a  gamble,"  agreed  Sanders. 

"  Worse 'n  the  cattle  market,  and  no  livin'  man  can 
guess  that,"  said  the  owner  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  dog- 


120  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

matically.  "Bob,  you  better  put  Dave  with  the  crew  of 
that  wildcat  you're  spuddin'  in,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"I'll  put  him  on  afternoon  tower  in  place  of  that  fel- 
low Scott.  I've  been  intendin'  to  fire  him  soon  as  I 
could  get  a  good  man." 

"Much  obliged  to  you  both.  Hope  you 've  found  that 
good  man,"  said  Sanders. 

"We  have.  Ain't  either  of  us  worryin'  about  that." 
With  a  quizzical  smile  Crawford  raised  a  point  that  was 
in  his  mind.  "Say,  son,  you  talk  a  heap  more  like  a 
book  than  you  used  to.  You  did  n't  slip  one  over  on  us 
and  go  to  college,  did  you?" 

"I  went  to  school  in  the  penitentiary,"  Dave  said. 

He  had  been  immured  in  a  place  of  furtive,  obscene 
whisperings,  but  he  had  found  there  not  only  vice. 
There  was  the  chance  of  an  education.  He  had  accepted 
it  at  first  because  he  dared  not  let  himself  be  idle  in  his 
spare  time.  That  way  lay  degeneration  and  the  loss  of 
his  manhood.  He  had  studied  under  competent  instruc- 
tors English,  mathematics,  the  Spanish  grammar,  and 
mechanical  drawing,  as  well  as  surveying  and  stationary 
engineering.  He  had  read  some  of  the  world's  best  liter- 
ature. He  had  waded  through  a  good  many  histories. 
If  his  education  in  books  was  lopsided,  it  was  in  some 
respects  more  thorough  than  that  of  many  a  college  boy. 

Dave  did  not  explain  all  this.  He  let  his  simple  state- 
ment of  fact  stand  without  enlarging  on  it.  His  life  of 
late  years  had  tended  to  make  him  reticent. 

"Heard  from  Burns  yet  about  that  fishin*  job  on 
Jackpot  Number  Three?"  Bob  asked  Crawford. 

"Only  that  he  thinks  he  hooked  the  tools  and  lost 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  121 

'em  again.  Wisht  you'd  run  out  in  the  mo'nin5,  son,  and 
see  what's  doin'.  I  got  to  go  out  to  the  ranch." 

"I'll  drive  out  to-night  and  take  Dave  with  me  if  he 
feels  up  to  it.  Then  we'll  know  the  foreman  keeps 
humpin'." 

"Fine  and  dandy."  The  cattleman  turned  to  San- 
ders. "But  I  reckon  you  better  stay  right  here  and  rest 
up.  Time  enough  for  you  to  go  to  work  when  yore 
shoulder's  all  right." 

"Won't  hurt  me  a  bit  to  drive  out  with  Bob.  This 
thing's  going  to  keep  me  awake  anyhow.  I'd  rather  be 
outdoors." 

They  drove  out  in  the  buckboard  behind  the  half- 
broken  colts.  The  young  broncos  went  out  of  town  to  a 
flying  start.  They  raced  across  the  plain  as  hard  as  they 
could  tear,  the  light  rig  swaying  behind  them  as  the 
wheels  hit  the  high  spots.  Not  till  they  had  worn  out 
their  first  wild  energy  was  conversation  possible. 

Bob  told  of  his  change  of  occupation. 

"Started  dressin'  tools  on  a  wildcat  test  for  Crawford 
two  years  ago  when  he  first  begun  to  plunge  in  oil. 
Built  derricks  for  a  while.  Ran  a  drill.  Dug  sump  holes. 
Shot  a  coupla  wells.  Went  in  with  a  fellow  on  a  star  rig 
as  pardner.  Went  busted  and  took  Crawford's  offer  to 
be  handy  man  for  him.  Tha's  about  all,  except  that  I 
own  stock  in  two-three  dead  ones  and  some  that  ain't 
come  to  life  yet." 

The  road  was  full  of  chuck  holes  and  very  dusty,  both 
faults  due  to  the  heavy  travel  that  went  over  it  day  and 
night.  They  were  in  the  oil  field  now  and  gaunt  derricks 
tapered  to  the  sky  to  right  and  left  of  them.  Occasion- 


122  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

ally  Dave  could  hear  the  kick  of  an  engine  or  could  see  a 
big  beam  pumping. 

"I  suppose  most  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  boys  have  got 
into  oil  some,"  suggested  Sanders. 

"  Every  man,  woman,  and  kid  around  is  in  oil  neck 
deep,"  Bob  answered.  "Malapi's  gone  oil  crazy.  Folks 
are  tradin'  and  speculatin'  in  stock  and  royalty  rights 
that  never  could  amount  to  a  hill  o'  beans.  Slick  pro- 
moters are  gettin'  rich.  I've  known  photographers  to 
fake  gushers  in  their  dark-rooms.  The  country 's  full 
of  abandoned  wells  of  busted  companies.  Oil  is  a  big 
man's  game.  It  takes  capital  to  operate.  I'll  bet  it 
ain't  onct  in  a  dozen  times  an  investor  gets  a  square  run 
for  his  white  alley,  at  that." 

"There  are  crooks  in  every  game." 

"Sure,  but  oil's  so  darned  temptin'  to  a  crook.  All 
the  suckers  are  shovin'  money  at  a  promoter.  They 
don't  ask  his  capitalization  or  investigate  his  field. 
Lots  o'  promoters  would  hate  like  Sam  Hill  to  strike 
oil.  If  they  did  they'd  have  to  take  care  of  it.  That's 
a  lot  of  trouble.  They  can  make  more  organizin'  a  new 
company  and  rakin'  in  money  from  new  investors." 

Bob  swung  the  team  from  the  main  road  and  put  it 
at  a  long  rise. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  easier  than  to  drop  money  into 
a  hole  in  the  ground  and  call  it  an  oil  well,"  he  went  on. 
"Even  if  the  proposition  is  absolutely  on  the  level,  the 
chances  are  all  against  the  investor.  It's  a  fifty-to-one 
shot.  Tools  are  lost,  the  casin5  collapses,  the  cable 
breaks,  money  gives  out,  shootin'  is  badly  done,  water 
filters  in,  or  oil  ain't  there  in  payin*  quantities.  In  a 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  ^^ 

coupla  years  you  can  buy  a  deskf ul  of  no-good  stock  for 
a  dollar  Mex." 

"Then  why  is  everybody  in  it?" 

"We've  all  been  bit  by  this  get-rich-quick  bug.  If 
you  hit  it  right  in  oil  you  can  wear  all  the  diamonds 
you've  a  mind  to.  That's  part  of  it,  but  it  ain't  all. 
The  West  always  did  like  to  take  a  chance,  I  reckon. 
Well,  this  is  gamblin'  on  a  big  scale  and  it  gets  into  a 
fellow's  blood.  We're  all  crazy,  but  we'd  hate  to  be 
cured." 

The  driver  stopped  at  the  location  of  Jackpot  Num- 
ber Three  and  invited  his  friend  to  get  out. 

"Make  yoreself  to  home,  Dave.  I  reckon  you  ain't 
sorry  that  fool  team  has  quit  joltin'  yore  shoulder." 

Sanders  was  not,  but  he  did  not  say  so.  He  could 
stand  the  pain  of  his  wound  easily  enough,  but  there 
was  enough  of  it  to  remind  him  pretty  constantly  that 
he  had  been  in  a  fight. 

The  fishing  for  the  string  of  lost  tools  was  going  on 
by  lamplight.  With  a  good  deal  of  interest  Dave  ex- 
amined the  big  hooks  that  had  been  sent  down  in  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  draw  out  the  drill.  It  was  a 
slow  business  and  a  not  very  interesting  one.  The  tools 
seemed  as  hard  to  hook  as  a  wily  old  trout.  Presently 
Sanders  wandered  to  the  bunkhouse  and  sat  down  on 
the  front  step.  He  thought  perhaps  he  had  not  been 
wise  to  come  out  with  Hart.  His  shoulder  throbbed  a 
good  deal. 

After  a  time  Bob  joined  him.  Faintly  there  came  to 
them  the  sound  of  an  engine  thumping. 

"Steelman's  outfit,"  said  Hart  gloomily.    "His  liT 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 

old  engine  goes  right  on  kickin'  all  the  darned  time.  If 
he  gets  to  oil  first  we  lose.  Man  who  makes  first  dis- 
covery on  a  claim  wins  out  in  this  country." 

"How's  that?  Did  n't  you  locate  properly?" 

"  Had  no  time  to  do  the  assessment  work  after  we 
located.  Dug  a  sump  hole,  maybe.  Brad  jumps  in  when 
the  field  here  began  to  look  up.  Company  that  shows 
oil  first  will  sure  win  out." 

"How  deep  has  he  drilled?" 

"We're  a  liT  deeper  —  not  much.  Both  must  be 
close  to  the  sands.  We  were  showin'  driller's  smut  when 
we  lost  our  string."  Bob  reached  into  his  hip  pocket 
and  drew  out  "the  makings."  He  rolled  his  cigarette 
and  lit  it.  "I  reckon  Steelman  's  a  millionaire  now — on 
paper,  anyhow.  He  was  about  busted  when  he  got  busy 
in  oil.  He  was  lucky  right  off,  and  he's  crooked  as  a 
dawg's  hind  laig  —  don't  care  how  he  gets  his,  so  he 
gets  it.  He  sure  trimmed  the  suckers  a-plenty." 

"He  and  Crawford  are  still  unfriendly,"  Dave  sug-\ 
gested,  the  inflection  of  his  voice  making  the  statement 
a  question. 

"Onfriendly !"  drawled  Bob,  leaning  back  against  the 
step  and  letting  a  smoke  ring  curl  up.  "Well,  tha's  a 
good,  nice  parlor  word.  Yes,  I  reckon  you  could  call 
them  onfriendly."  Presently  he  went  on,  in  explana- 
tion: "Brad's  goin'  to  put  Crawford  down  and  out  if 
it  can  be  done  by  hook  or  crook.  He's  a  big  man  in 
the  country  now.  We  have  n't  been  lucky,  like  he  has. 
Besides,  the  ol'  man's  company's  on  the  square.  This 
business  ain't  like  cows.  It  takes  big  money  to  swing. 
You  make  or  break  mighty  sudden." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  I 

"Yes." 

"And  Steelman  won't  stick  at  a  thing.  Would  n't 
trust  him  or  any  one  of  his  crowd  any  further  than  I 
could  sling  a  bull  by  the  tail.  He'd  blow  Crawford  and 
me  sky  high  if  he  thought  he  could  get  away  with  it." 

Sanders  nodded  agreement.  He  had  n't  a  doubt  of 
it. 

With  a  thumb  jerk  toward  the  beating  engine,  Bob 
took  up  again  his  story.  "Got  a  bunch  of  thugs  over 
there  right  now  ready  for  business  if  necessary.  Im- 
ported plug-uglies  and  genuwine  blown-in-the-bottle 
home  talent.  Shorty 's  still  one  of  the  gang,  and  our 
old  friend  Dug  Doble  is  boss  of  the  rodeo.  I'm  lookin' 
for  trouble  if  we  win  out  and  get  to  oil  first." 

"You  think  they'll  attack." 

A  gay  light  of  cool  recklessness  danced  in  the  eyes  of 
the  young  oilman.  "I've  a  kinda  notion  they'll  drap 
over  and  pay  us  a  visit  one  o5  these  nights,  say  in  the 
dark  of  the  moon.  If  they  do  —  well,  we  certainly  aim 
to  welcome  them  proper." 


IM 


122 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
DOBLE  PAYS  A  VISIT 

"HELLO,  the  Jackpot!" 

Out  of  the  night  the  call  came  to  the  men  at  the 
bunkhouse. 

Bob  looked  at  his  companion  and  grinned.  "Seems 
to  me  I  recognize  that  melojious  voice." 

A  man  stepped  from  the  gloom  with  masterful,  ar- 
rogant strides. 

"'Lo,  Hart,"  he  said.   "Can  you  lend  me  a  reamer?" 

Bob  knew  he  had  come  to  spy  out  the  land  and  not 
to  borrow  tools. 

"Don't  seem  to  me  we've  hardly  got  any  reamers 
to  spare,  Dug,"  drawled  the  young  man  sitting  on  the 
porch  floor.  "What's  the  trouble?  Got  a  kink  in  yore 
casin'?" 

"Not  so  you  could  notice  it,  but  you  never  can  tell 
when  you're  goin'  to  run  into  bad  luck,  can  you?"  He 
sat  down  on  the  porch  and  took  a  cigar  from  his  vest 
pocket.  "What  with  losin*  tools  and  one  thing  an* 
'nother,  this  oil  game  sure  is  hell.  By  the  way,  how's 
yore  fishin'  job  comin'  on?" 

"Fine,  Dug.  We  ain't  hooked  our  big  fish  yet,  but 
we're  hopeful." 

Dave  was  sitting  in  the  shadow.  Doble  nodded  care- 
lessly to  him  without  recognition.  It  was  characteristic 
of  his  audacity  that  Dug  had  walked  over  impudently 
to  spy  out  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  Bob  knew  why  he 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  _^J 

had  come,  and  he  knew  that  Bob  knew.  Yet  both 
ignored  the  fact  that  he  was  not  welcome. 

"I've  known  fellows  angle  a  right  long  time  for  a 
trout  and  not  catch  him,"  said  Doble,  stretching  his 
long  legs  comfortably. 

4 'Yes/'  agreed  Bob.  "Wish  I  could  hire  you  to  throw 
a  monkey  wrench  in  that  engine  over  there.  Its  chug- 
gin'  keeps  me  awake." 

"I'll  bet  it  does.  Well,  young  fellow,  you  can't  hire 
me  or  anybody  else  to  stop  it,"  retorted  Doble,  an  edge 
to  his  voice. 

"Well,  I  just  mentioned  it,"  murmured  Hart.  "I 
don't  aim  to  rile  yore  feelin's.  We'll  talk  of  somethin' 
else.  .  .  .  Hope  you  enjoyed  that  reunion  this  week 
with  yore  old  friend,  absent  far,  but  dear  to  memory 
ever." 

"Referrin'  to?"  demanded  Doble  with  sharp  hostil- 
ity. 

"Why,  Ad  Miller,  Dug." 

"Is  he  a  friend  of  mine?" 

"Ain't  he?" 

"Not  that  I  ever  heard  tell  of." 

"Glad  of  that.  You  won't  miss  him  now  he 's  lit  out." 

"Oh,  he's  lit  out,  has  he?" 

"A  KT  bird  whispered  to  me  he  had." 

"When?" 

"This  evenin',  I  understand." 

"Where 'd  he  go?" 

"He  did  n't  leave  any  address.  Called  away  on  sud- 
den business." 

"Did  he  mention  the  business?" 


UQ  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Not  tome."  Bob  turne$  to  his  friend.  "Did  he 
say  anything  to  you  about  that,  Dave?" 

In  the  silence  one  might  have  heard  a  watch  tick. 
Doble  leaned  forward,  his  body  rigid,  danger  written 
large  in  his  burning  eyes  and  clenched  fist. 

"So  you  're  back,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  low,  harsh  voice. 

"I'm  back." 

"It  would  'a'  pleased  me  if  they  had  put  a  rope  round 
yore  neck,  Mr.  Convict." 

Dave  made  no  comment.  Nobody  could  have  guessed 
from  his  stillness  how  fierce  was  the  blood  pressure  at 
his  temples. 

"It's  a  difference  of  opinion  makes  horse-races, 
Dug,"  said  Bob  lightly. 

The  big  ex-foreman  rose  snarling.  "For  half  a  cent 
I'd  gun  you  here  and  now  like  you  did  George." 

Sanders  looked  at  him  steadily,  his  hands  hanging 
loosely  by  his  sides. 

"I  wouldn't  try  that,  Dug,"  warned  Hart.  "Dave 
ain't  armed,  but  I  am.  My  hand's  on  my  six-shooter 
right  this  minute.  Don't  make  a  mistake." 

The  ex-foreman  glared  at  him.  Doble  was  a  strong, 
reckless  devil  of  a  fellow  who  feared  neither  God  nor 
man.  A  primeval  savagery  burned  in  his  blood,  but  like 
most  "bad"  men  he  had  that  vein  of  caution  in  his 
make-up  which  seeks  to  find  its  victim  at  disadvantage. 
He  knew  Hart  too  well  to  doubt  his  word.  One  cannot 
ride  the  range  with  a  man  year  in,  year  out,  without 
knowing  whether  the  iron  is  in  his  arteries. 

"Declarin'  yoreself  in  on  this,  are  you?"  he  demanded 
ominously,  showing  his  teeth. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"I  Ve  always  been  in  on  it,  Dug.  Took  a  hand  at  the 
first  deal,  the  day  of  the  race.  If  you  're  lookin'  for  trou- 
ble with  Dave,  you'll  find  it  goes  double." 

"Not  able  to  play  his  own  hand,  eh?" 

"Not  when  you've  got  a  six-shooter  and  he  has  n't. 
Not  after  he  has  just  been  wounded  by  another  gunman 
he  cleaned  up  with  his  bare  hands.  You  and  yore  friends 
are  lookin'  for  things  too  easy." 

"Easy,  hell!  I'll  fight  you  and  him  both,  with  or 
without  guns.  Any  time.  Any  place." 

Doble  backed  away  till  his  figure  grew  vague  in  the 
darkness.  Came  the  crack  of  a  revolver.  A  bullet  tore  a 
splinter  from  the  wall  of  the  shack  in  front  of  which 
Dave  was  standing.  A  jeering  laugh  floated  to  the  two 
men,  carried  on  the  light  night  breeze. 

Bob  whipped  out  his  revolver,  but  he  did  not  fire.  He 
and  his  friend  slipped  quietly  to  the  far  end  of  the  house 
and  found  shelter  round  the  corner. 

"Ain't  that  like  Dug,  the  damned  double-crosser?" 
whispered  Bob.  "I  reckon  he  did  n't  try  awful  hard  to 
hit  you.  Just  sent  his  compliments  kinda  casual  to  show 
good-will." 

"I  reckon  he  did  n't  try  very  hard  to  miss  me  either," 
said  Dave  dryly.  "The  bullet  came  within  a  foot  of  my 
head." 

"He's  one  bad  citizen,  if  you  ask  me,"  admitted 
Hart,  without  reluctance.  "Know  how  he  came  to 
break  with  the  old  man?  He  had  the  nerve  to  start 
beauin'  Miss  Joyce.  She  would  n't  have  it  a  minute. 
He  stayed  right  with  it  —  tried  to  ride  over  her.  Craw- 
ford took  a  hand  and  kicked  him  out.  Since  then  Dug 
has  been  one  bitter  enemy  of  the  old  man." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Then  Crawford  had  better  look  out.  If  Doble  is  n't 
a  killer,  I've  never  met  one." 

"I've  got  a  fool  notion  that  he  ain't  aimin'  to  kill 
him;  that  maybe  he  wants  to  help  Steelman  bust  him  so 
as  he  can  turn  the  screws  on  him  and  get  Miss  Joyce. 
Dug  must  'a'  been  makin'  money  fast  in  Brad's  com- 
pany. He's  on  the  inside." 

Dave  made  no  comment. 

"I  expect  you  was  some  surprised  when  I  told  Dug 
who  was  roostin'  on  the  step  so  clost  to  him,"  Hart 
went  on.  "Well,  I  had  a  reason.  He  was  due  to  find  it 
out  anyhow  in  about  a  minute,  so  I  thought  I  'd  let  him 
know  we  was  n't  tryin'  to  keep  him  from  knowin'  who 
his  neighbor  was;  also  that  I  was  good  and  ready  for  him 
if  he  got  red-haided  like  Miller  done." 

"I  understood,  Bob,"  said  his  friend  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AN  INVOLUNTARY  BATH 

JACKPOT  NUMBER  THREE  hooked  its  tools  the  second 
day  after  Sanders' s  visit  to  that  location.  A  few  hours 
later  its  engine  was  thumping  merrily  and  the  cable  ris- 
ing and  falling  monotonously  in  the  casing.  On  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  third  day  Bob  Hart  rode  up  to  the  wild- 
cat well  where  Dave  was  building  a  sump  hole  with  a 
gang  of  Mexicans. 

He  drew  Sanders  to  one  side.  ' '  Trouble  to-night,  Dave, 
looks  like.  At  Jackpot  Number  Three.  We  're  in  a  layer 
of  soft  shale  just  above  the  oil-bearin'  sand.  Soon  we'll 
know  where  we  're  at.  Word  has  reached  me  that  Doble 
means  to  rush  the  night  tower  and  wreck  the  engine." 

"You'll  stand  his  crowd  off?" 

"You'rewhistlinV 

"Sure  your  information  is  right?" 

"It's  c'rect."  Bob  added,  after  a  momentary  hesita- 
tion: "We  got  a  spy  in  his  camp." 

Sanders  did  not  ask  whether  the  affair  was  to  be  a 
pitched  battle.  He  waited,  sure  that  Bob  would  tell  him 
when  he  was  ready.  That  young  man  came  to  the  sub- 
ject indirectly. 

"How's  yore  shoulder,  Dave?" 

"Doesn't  trouble  me  any  unless  something  is 
slammed  against  it." 

"Interfere  with  you  usin'  a  six-shooter?'* 

"No." 


132  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Like  to  take  a  ride  with  me  over  to  the  Jackpot?" 

"Yes." 

"Good  enough.  I  want  you  to  look  the  ground  over 
with  me.  Looks  now  as  if  it  would  come  to  fireworks. 
But  we  don't  want  any  Fourth-of-July  stuff  if  we  can 
help  it.  Can  we?  That's  the  point." 

At  the  Jackpot  the  friends  walked  over  the  ground 
together.  Back  of  the  location  and  to  the  west  of  it  an 
arroyo  ran  from  a  canon  above. 

"Follow  it  down  and  it'll  take  you  right  into  the  loca- 
tion where  Steelman  is  drillin',"  explained  Bob.  "Dug's 
gonna  lead  his  gang  up  the  arroyo  to  the  mesquite  here, 
sneak  down  on  us,  and  take  our  camp  with  a  rush.  At 
least,  that's  what  he  aims  to  do.  You  can't  always  tell, 
as  the  fellow  says." 

"What 'sup  above?" 

"Adam.  Steelman  owns  the  ground  up  there.  He's 
got  several  acres  of  water  backed  up  there  for  irrigation 
purposes." 

"Let's  go  up  and  look  it  over." 

Bob  showed  a  mild  surprise.  "Why,  yes,  if  you  want 
to  take  some  exercise.  This  is  my  busy  day,  but  — *' 

Sanders  ignored  the  hint.  He  led  the  way  up  a  stiff 
trail  that  took  them  to  the  mouth  of  the  canon.  Across 
the  face  of  this  a  dam  stretched.  They  climbed  to  the 
top  of  it.  The  water  rose  to  within  about  six  feet  from 
the  rim  of  the  curved  wall. 

"Some  view,"  commented  Bob  with  a  grin,  looking 
across  the  plains  that  spread  fanlike  from  the  mouth  of 
the  gorge.  "But  I  ain't  much  interested  in  scenery  to- 
day somehow." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  133 

"When  were  you  expectin'  to  shoot  the  well,  Bob?" 

"Some  time  to-morrow.  Don't  know  just  when. 
Why?" 

"Got  the  nitro  here  yet?" 

"Brought  it  up  this  mo'nin'  myself." 

"How  much?" 

"Twelve  quarts." 

"Any  dynamite  in  camp?" 

"Yes.  A  dozen  sticks,  maybe." 

"And  three  gallons  of  nitro,  you  say." 

"Yep." 

"That's  enough  to  do  the  job,"  Sanders  said,  as 
though  talking  aloud  to  himself. 

"Yep.   Tha's  what  we  usually  use." 

"I'm  speaking  of  another  job.  Let's  get  down  from 
here.  We  might  be  seen." 

"They  couldn't  hit  us  from  the  Steelman  location. 
Too  far,"  said  Bob.  "And  I  don't  reckon  any  one  would 
try  to  do  that." 

"No,  but  they  might  get  to  wondering  what  we're 
doing  up  here." 

"I'm  wonderin'  that  myself,"  drawled  Hart.  "Most 
generally  when  I  take  a  pasear  it's  on  the  back  of  a 
bronc.  I  ain't  one  of  them  that  believes  the  good  Lord 
made  human  laigs  to  be  walked  on,  not  so  long  as  any 
broomtails  are  left  to  straddle." 

Screened  by  the  heavy  mesquite  below,  Sanders  un- 
folded his  proposed  plan  of  operations.  Bob  listened, 
and  as  Dave  talked  there  came  into  Hart's  eyes  danc- 
ing imps  of  deviltry.  He  gave  a  subdued  whoop  of 
delight,  slapped  his  dusty  white  hat  on  his  thigh,  and 


134  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

vented  his  enthusiasm  in  murmurs  of  admiring  pro- 
fanity. 

"It  may  not  work  out,"  suggested  his  friend.  "But 
if  your  information  is  correct  and  they  come  up  the  ar- 
royo  — 

"It's  c'rect  enough.  Lemme  ask  you  a  question.  If 
you  was  attacktin'  us,  would  n't  you  come  that  way?" 

"Yes." 

"Sure.  It's  the  logical  way.  Dug  figures  to  capture 
our  camp  without  firin'  a  shot.  And  he'd  'a'  done  it, 
too,  if  we  had  n't  had  warnin'." 

Sanders  frowned,  his  mind  busy  over  the  plan.  "It 
ought  to  work,  unless  something  upsets  it,"  he  said. 

"Sure  it'll  work.  You  darned  old  fox,  I  never  did  see 
yore  beat.  Say,  if  we  pull  this  off  right,  Dug's  gonna 
pretty  near  be  laughed  outa  the  county." 

"Keep  it  quiet.  Only  three  of  us  need  to  know  it. 
You  stay  at  the  well  to  keep  Doble's  gang  back  if  we 
slip  up.  I  '11  give  the  signal,  and  the  third  man  will  fire 
the  fuse." 

"Buck  Byington  will  be  here  pretty  soon.  I'll  get 
him  to  set  off  the  Fourth-of-July  celebration.  He's  a 
regular  clam  —  won't  ever  say  a  word  about  this." 

"When  you  hear  her  go  off,  you'd  better  bring  the 
men  down  on  the  jump." 

Byington  came  up  the  road  half  an  hour  later  at  a 
cowpuncher's  jog-trot.  He  slid  from  the  saddle  and 
came  forward  chewing  tobacco.  His  impassive,  leathery 
face  expressed  no  emotion  whatever.  Carelessly  and 
casually  he  shook  hands.  "How,  Dave?" 

"How,  Buck?"  answered  Sanders. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  135 

The  old  puncher  had  always  liked  Dave  Sanders. 
The  boy  had  begun  work  on  the  range  as  a  protege  of 
his.  He  had  taught  him  how  to  read  sign  and  how  to 
throw  a  rope.  They  had  ridden  out  a  blizzard  together, 
and  the  old-timer  had  cared  for  him  like  a  father.  The 
boy  had  repaid  him  with  a  warm,  ingenuous  affection, 
an  engaging  sweetness  of  outward  respect.  A  certain 
fineness  in  the  eager  face  had  lingered  as  an  inheritance 
from  his  clean  youth.  No  playful  pup  could  have  been 
more  friendly.  Now  Buck  shook  hands  with  a  grim- 
faced  man,  one  a  thousand  years  old  in  bitter  experi- 
ence. The  eyes  let  no  warmth  escape.  In  the  younger 
man's  consciousness  rose  the  memory  of  a  hundred  kind- 
nesses flowing  from  Buck  to  him.  Yet  he  could  not  let 
himself  go.  It  was  as  though  the  prison  chill  had  en- 
cased his  heart  in  ice  which  held  his  impulses  fast. 

After  dusk  had  fallen  they  made  their  preparations. 
The  three  men  slipped  away  from  the  bunkhouse  into 
the  chaparral.  Bob  carried  a  bulging  gunnysack,  Dave 
a  lantern,  a  pick,  a  drill,  and  a  hammer.  None  of  them 
talked  till  they  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  canon. 

"We'd  better  get  busy  before  it's  too  dark,"  Bob 
said.  "We  picked  this  spot,  Buck.  Suit  you?" 

Byington  had  been  a  hard-rock  Colorado  miner  in  his 
youth.  He  examined  the  dam  and  came  back  to  the 
place  chosen.  After  taking  off  his  coat  he  picked  up  the 
hammer.  "Le's  start.  The  sooner  the  quicker." 

Dave  soaked  the  gunnysack  in  water  and  folded  it 
over  the  top  of  the  drill  to  deaden  the  sound.  Buck 
wielded  the  hammer  and  Bob  held  the  drill. 

After  it  grew  dark  they  worked  by  the  light  of  the 


136  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

lantern.  Dave  and  Bob  relieved  Buck  at  the  hammer. 
They  drilled  two  holes,  put  in  the  dynamite  charges, 
tamped  them  down,  and  filled  in  again  the  holes.  The 
nitroglycerine,  too,  was  prepared  and  set  for  explosion. 

Hart  straightened  stiffly  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Time  to  move  back  to  camp,  Dave.  Business  may  get 
brisk  soon  now.  Maybe  Dug  may  get  in  a  hurry  and 
start  things  earlier  than  he  intended." 

"Don't  miss  my  signal,  Buck.  Two  shots,  one  right 
after  another,"  said  Dave. 

"I'll  promise  you  to  send  back  two  shots  a  heap 
louder.  You  sure  won't  miss  'em,"  answered  Buck  with 
a  grin. 

The  younger  men  left  him  at  the  dam  and  went  back 
down  the  trail  to  their  camp0 

"No  report  yet  from  the  lads  watchin'  the  arroyo.  I 
expect  Dug's  waitin'  till  he  thinks  we're  all  asleep  ex- 
cept the  night  tower,"  whispered  the  man  who  had  been 
left  in  charge  by  Hart. 

"Dave,  you  better  relieve  the  boys  at  the  arroyo," 
suggested  Bob.  "Fireworks  soon  now,  I  expect." 

Sanders  crept  through  the  heavy  chaparral  to  the 
liveoaks  above  the  arroyo,  snaking  his  way  among  cac- 
tus and  mesquite  over  the  sand.  A  watcher  jumped  up 
at  his  approach.  Dave  raised  his  hand  and  moved  it 
above  his  head  from  right  to  left.  The  guard  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness  f  oward  the  Jackpot.  Presently 
his  companion  followed  him.  Dave  was  left  alone. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  multitudinous  small  voices 
of  the  night  had  never  been  more  active.  A  faint  trickle 
of  water  came  up  from  the  bed  of  the  stream.  He  knew 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  137 

this  was  caused  by  leakage  from  the  reservoir  in  the 
gulch.  A  tiny  rustle  stirred  the  dry  grass  close  to  his 
hand.  His  peering  into  the  thick  brush  did  not  avail  to 
tell  him  what  form  of  animal  life  was  palpitating  there. 
Far  away  a  mocking-bird  throbbed  out  a  note  or  two, 
grew  quiet,  and  again  became  tunefully  clamorous.  A 
night  owl  hooted.  The  sound  of  a  soft  footfall  rolling 
a  pebble  brought  him  to  taut  alertness.  Eyes  and  ears 
.  became  automatic  detectives  keyed  to  finest  service. 

A  twig  snapped  in  the  arroyo.  Indistinctly  move- 
ments of  blurred  masses  were  visible.  The  figure  of  a 
man  detached  itself  from  the  gloom  and  crept  along  the 
sandy  wash.  A  second  and  a  third  took  shape.  The  dry 
bed  became  filled  with  vague  motion.  Sanders  waited 
no  longer.  He  crawled  back  from  the  lip  of  the  ravine 
a  dozen  yards,  drew  his  revolver,  and  fired  twice.  , 

His  guess  had  been  that  the  attacking  party,  startled 
at  the  shots,  would  hesitate  and  draw  together  for  a 
whispered  conference.  This  was  exactly  what  occurred. 

An  explosion  tore  to  shreds  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
Before  the  first  had  died  away  a  second  one  boomed  out. 
Dave  heard  a  shower  of  falling  rock  and  concrete.  He 
heard,  too,  a  roar  growing  every  moment  in  volume.  It 
swept  down  the  walled  gorge  like  a  railroad  train  mak- 
ing up  lost  time. 

Sanders  stepped  forward.  The  gully,  lately  a  wash  of 
dry  sand  and  baked  adobe,  was  full  of  a  fury  of  rushing 
water.  Above  the  noise  of  it  he  caught  the  echo  of  a 
despairing  scream.  Swiftly  he  ran,  dodging  among  the 
catclaw  and  the  prickly  pear  like  a  half-back  carrying 
the  ball  through  a  broken  field.  His  objective  was  the 


138  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

place  where  the  arroyo  opened  to  a  draw.  At  this  pre- 
cise spot  Steelman  had  located  his  derrick. 

The  tower  no  longer  tapered  gauntly  to  the  sky.  The 
rush  of  waters  released  from  the  dam  had  swept  it  from 
its  foundation,  torn  apart  the  timbers,  and  scattered 
them  far  and  wide.  With  it  had  gone  the  wheel,  drag- 
ging from  the  casing  the  cable.  The  string  of  tools, 
jerked  from  their  socket,  probably  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well  two  thousand  feet  down. 

Dave  heard  a  groan.  He  moved  toward  the  sound.  A 
man  lay  on  a  sand  hummock,  washed  up  by  the  tide. 

"Badly  hurt?"  asked  Dave. 

"I've  been  drowned  intirely,  swallowed  by  a  flood 
and  knocked  galley-west  for  Sunday.  I  don't  know  yit 
am  I  dead  or  not.  Mither  o'  Moses,  phwat  was  it  hit  us?  " 

"The  dam  must  have  broke." 

"Was  the  Mississippi  corked  up  in  the  dom  canon?" 

Bob  bore  down  upon  the  scene  at  the  head  of  the 
Jackpot  contingent.  He  gave  a  whoop  at  sight  of  the 
wrecked  derrick  and  engine.  "  Kindlin'  wood  and  junk," 
was  his  verdict.  "Where's  Dug  and  his  gang?" 

Dave  relieved  the  half-drowned  man  of  his  revolver. 
"Here's  one.  The  rest  must  be  either  in  the  arroyo  or 
out  in  the  draw." 

"Scatter,  boys,  and  find  'em.  Look  out  for  them  if 
they're  hurt.  Collect  their  hardware  first  off." 

The  water  by  this  time  had  subsided.  Released  from 
the  walls  of  the  arroyo,  it  had  spread  over  the  desert. 
The  supply  in  the  reservoir  was  probably  exhausted,  for 
the  stream  no  longer  poured  down  in  a  torrent.  Instead, 
it  came  in  jets,  weakly  and  with  spent  energy. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  139 

Hart  called.  "Come  here  and  meet  an  old  friend, 
Dave." 

Sanders  made  his  way,  ankle  deep  in  water,  to  the 
spot  from  which  that  irrepressibly  gay  voice  had  come. 
He  was  still  carrying  the  revolver  he  had  taken  from  the 
Irishman. 

"Meet  Shorty,  Dave.  Don't  mind  his  not  risin'  to 
shake.  He's  just  been  wrastlin'  with  a  waterspout  and 
he's  some  wore  out." 

The  squat  puncher  glared  at  his  tormentor.  "I  done 
bust  my  laig,"  he  said  at  last  sullenly. 

He  was  wet  to  the  skin.  His  lank,  black  hair  fell  in 
front  of  his  tough,  unshaven  face.  One  hand  nursed  the 
lacerated  leg.  The  other  was  hooked  by  the  thumb  into 
the  band  of  his  trousers. 

:'That  worries  us  a  heap,  Shorty,"  answered  Hart 
callously.  "I'd  say  you  got  it  comin'  to  you." 

The  hand  hitched  in  the  trouser  band  moved  slightly. 
Bob,  aware  too  late  of  the  man's  intention,  reached  for 
his  six-shooter.  Something  flew  past  him  straight  and 
hard. 

Shorty  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  yelp  and  collapsed. 
He  had  been  struck  in  the  head  by  a  heavy  revolver. 

"Some  throwin',  Dave.  Much  obliged,"  said  Hart. 
"We'll  disarm  this  bird  and  pack  him  back  to  the  der- 
rick." They  did.  Shorty  almost  wept  with  rage  and 
pain  and  impotent  malice.  He  cursed  steadily  and 
fluently.  He  might  as  well  have  saved  his  breath,  for 
his  captors  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  his  spleen. 

Weak  as  a  drowned  rat,  Doble  came  limping  out  of 
the  ravine.  He  sat  down  on  a  timber,  very  sick  at  the 


140  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

stomach  from  too  much  water  swallowed  in  haste. 
After  he  had  relieved  himself,  he  looked  up  wanly  and 
recognized  Hart,  who  was  searching  him  for  a  hidden 
six-shooter. 

"Must  'a'  lost  yore  forty-five  whilst  you  was  in 
swimmin',  Dug.  Was  the  water  good  this  evenin'?  I'll 
bet  you  and  yore  lads  pulled  off  a  lot  o'  fancy  stunts 
when  the  water  come  down  from  Lodore  or  wherever 
they  had  it  corralled."  Dancing  imps  of  mischief  lit 
the  eyes  of  the  ex-cowpuncher.  "Well,  I'll  bet  the  boys 
in  town  get  a  great  laugh  at  yore  comedy  stuff.  You 
ce'tainly  did  a  good  turn.  Oh,  you've  sure  earned  yore 
laugh." 

If  hatred  could  have  killed  with  a  look  Bob  would 
have  been  a  dead  man.  "You  blew  up  the  dam," 
charged  Doble. 

"Me!  Why,  it  ain't  my  dam.  Did  n't  Brad  give  you 
orders  to  open  the  sluices  to  make  you  a  swimmin' 
hole?" 

The  searchers  began  to  straggle  in,  bringing  with 
them  a  sadly  drenched  and  battered  lot  of  gunmen. 
Not  one  but  looked  as  though  he  had  been  through  the 
wars.  An  inventory  of  wounds  showed  a  sprained  ankle, 
a  broken  shoulder  blade,  a  cut  head,  and  various  other 
minor  wounds.  Nearly  every  member  of  Doble's  army 
was  exceedingly  nauseated.  The  men  sat  down  or 
leaned  up  against  the  wreckage  of  the  plant  and  drooped 
wretchedly.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of  fight  left  in  any 
of  them. 

"They  must  'a'  blew  the  dam  up.  Them  shots  we 
heard!"  one  ventured  without  spirit. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  141 

"Who  blew  it  up?  "  demanded  one  of  the  Jackpot  men 
belligerently.  "If  you  say  we  did,  you're  a  liar." 

He  was  speaking  the  truth  so  far  as  he  knew.  The 
man  who  had  been  through  the  waters  did  not  take  up 
the  challenge.  Officers  in  the  army  say  that  men  will  not 
fight  on  an  empty  stomach,  and  his  was  very  empty. 

"I'll  remember  this,  Hart,"  Doble  said,  and  his  face 
was  a  thing  ill  to  look  upon.  The  lips  were  drawn  back 
so  that  his  big  teeth  were  bared  like  tusks.  The  eyes 
were  yellow  with  malignity. 

"Y'betcha!  The  boys  '11  look  after  that,  Dug," 
retorted  Bob  lightly.  "Every  time  you  hook  yore  heel 
over  the  bar  rail  at  the  Gusher,  you'll  know  they're 
laughin'  at  you  up  their  sleeves.  Sure,  you  '11  remember 
it." 

"Some  day  I'll  make  yore  whole  damned  outfit  sorry 
for  this,"  the  big  hook-nosed  man  threatened  blackly. 
"No  livin'  man  can  laugh  at  me  and  get  away  with  it." 

"I'm  laughin'  at  you,  Dug.  We  all  are.  Wish  you 
could  see  yoreself  as  we  see  you.  A  little  water  takes  a 
lot  o'  tuck  outa  some  men  who  are  feelin'  real  biggity." 

Byington,  at  this  moment,  sauntered  into  the  as- 
sembly. He  looked  around  in  simulated  surprise, 
"Must  be  bath  night  over  at  you-all's  camp,  Dug.  You 
look  kinda  drookid  yore  own  self,  as  you  might  say." 

Doble  swore  savagely.  He  pointed  with  a  shaking 
finger  at  Sanders,  who  was  standing  silently  in  the  back- 
ground. "Tha's  the  man  who's  responsible  for  this. 
Think  I  don't  know?  That  jail  bird!  That  convict! 
That  killer!"  His  voice  trembled  with  fury.  "You'd 
never  a-thought  of  it  in  a  thousand  years,  Hart.  Nor 


142  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

you,  Buck,  you  old  fathead.  Wait.  Tha's  what  I  say. 
Wait.  It'll  be  me  or  him  one  day.  Soon,  too." 

The  paroled  man  said  nothing,  but  no  words  could 
have  been  more  effective  than  the  silence  of  this  lean, 
powerful  man  with  the  close-clamped  jaw  whose  hard 
eyes  watched  his  enemy  so  steadily.  He  gave  out  an 
impression  of  great  vitality  and  reserve  force.  Even 
these  hired  thugs,  dull  and  unimaginative  though  they 
were,  understood  that  he  was  dangerous  beyond  most 
fighting  men.  A  laugh  snapped  the  tension.  The  Jack- 
pot engineer  pointed  to  a  figure  emerging  from  the 
arroyo.  The  man  who  came  dejectedly  into  view  was 
large  and  fat  and  dripping.  He  was  weeping  curses  and 
trying  to  pick  cactus  burrs  from  his  anatomy.  Dismal 
groans  punctuated  his  profanity. 

"It  stranded  me  right  on  top  of  a  big  prickly  pear," 
he  complained.  "I  like  never  to  'a'  got  off,  and  a  million 
spines  are  stickin'  into  me." 

Bob  whooped.  "Look  who's  among  us.  If  it  ain't 
our  old  friend  Ad  Miller,  the  human  pincushion.  Seein' 
as  he  drapped  in,  we'll  collect  him  right  now  and  find 
out  if  the  sheriff  ain't  lookin'  for  him  to  take  a  trip  on 
the  choo-choo  cars." 

The  fat  convict  looked  to  Doble  in  vain  for  help.  His 
friend  was  staring  at  the  ground  sourly  in  a  huge  dis- 
gust at  life  and  all  that  it  contained.  Miller  limped 
painfully  to  the  Jackpot  in  front  of  Hart.  Two  days 
later  he  took  the  train  back  to  the  penitentiary. 
Emerson  Crawford  made  it  a  point  to  see  to  that. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  LITTLE  MOTHER  FREES  HER  MIND 

IF  some  one  had  made  Emerson  Crawford  a  present  of 
a  carload  of  Herefords  he  could  not  have  been  more 
pleased  than  he  was  at  the  result  of  the  Jackpot  crew's 
night  adventure  with  the  Steelman  forces.  The  news 
came  to  him  at  an  opportune  moment,  for  he  had  just 
been  served  notice  by  the  president  of  the  Malapi  First 
National  Bank  that  Crawford  must  prepare  to  meet  at 
once  a  call  note  for  $10,000.  A  few  hours  earlier  in  the 
day  the  cattleman  had  heard  it  rumored  that  Steelman 
had  just  bought  a  controlling  interest  in  the  bank.  He 
did  not  need  a  lawyer  to  tell  him  that  the  second  fact 
was  responsible  for  the  first.  In  fact  the  banker,  person- 
ally friendly  to  Crawford,  had  as  good  as  told  him  so. 

Bob  rode  in  with  the  story  of  the  fracas  in  time  to 
cheer  the  drooping  spirits  of  his  employer.  Emerson 
walked  up  and  down  the  parlor  waving  his  cigar  while 
Joyce  laughed  at  him. 

"Dawggone  my  skin,  if  that  don't  beat  my  time! 
I'm  settin'  aside  five  thousand  shares  in  the  Jackpot 
for  Dave  Sanders  right  now.  Smartest  trick  ever  I  did 
see."  The  justice  of  the  Jackpot's  vengeance  on  its 
rival  and  the  completeness  of  it  came  home  to  him  as 
he  strode  the  carpet.  "He  not  only  saves  my  property 
without  havin'  to  fight  for  it  —  and  that  was  a  blamed 
good  play  itself,  for  I  don't  want  you  boys  shootin' 
up  anybody  even  in  self-defense  —  but  he  disarms 


144  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Brad's  plug-uglies,  humiliates  them,  makes  them  plumb 
sick  of  the  job,  and  at  the  same  time  wipes  out  Steel- 
man's  location  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  I'll  make  that 
ten  thousand  shares,  by  gum!  That  boy's  sure  some 
stem  winder." 

"He  uses  his  haid,"  admitted  Bob  admiringly. 

"I'd  give  my  best  pup  to  have  been  there,"  said  the 
cattleman  regretfully. 

"It  was  some  show,"  drawled  the  younger  man. 
"Drowned  rats  was  what  they  reminded  me  of.  Could 
n't  get  a  rise  out  of  any  of  'em  except  Dug.  That  man 's 
dangerous,  if  you  ask  me.  He's  crazy  mad  at  all  of  us, 
but  most  at  Dave." 

"Will  he  hurt  him?"  asked  Joyce  quickly. 

"Can't  tell.   He'll  try.   That's  a  cinch." 

The  dark  brown  eyes  of  the  girl  brooded.  "That's 
not  fair.  We  can't  let  him  run  into  more  danger  for  us, 
Dad.  He's  had  enough  trouble  already.  We  must  do 
something.  Can't  you  send  him  to  the  Spring  Valley 
Ranch?" 

"Meanin'  Dug  Doble?"  asked  Bob. 

She  flashed  a  look  of  half-smiling,  half-tender  re- 
proach at  him.  "You  know  who  I  mean,  Bob.  And  I'm 
not  going  to  have  him  put  in  danger  on  our  account," 
she  added  with  naive  dogmatism. 

"Joy's  right.  She's  sure  right,"  admitted  Crawford. 

"Maybeso."  Hart  fell  into  his  humorous  drawl. 
"How  do  you  aim  to  get  him  to  Spring  Valley?  You 
goin'  to  have  him  hawg-tied  and  shipped  as  freight?" 

"I'll  talk  to  him.  I'll  tell  him  he  must  go."  Her 
resolute  little  face  was  aglow  and  eager.  "It's  time 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  145 

Malapi  was  civilized.  We  must  n't  give  these  bad  men 
provocation.  It's  better  to  avoid  them." 

" Yes/'  admitted  Bob  dryly.  "Well,  you  tell  all  that 
to  Dave.  Maybe  he's  the  kind  o'  lad  that  will  pack  up 
and  light  out  because  he's  afraid  of  Dug  Doble  and  his 
outfit.  Then  again  maybe  he  ain't." 

Crawford  shook  his  head.  He  was  a  game  man  him- 
self. He  would  go  through  when  the  call  came,  and  he 
knew  quite  well  that  Sanders  would  do  the  same.  Nor 
would  any  specious  plea  sidetrack  him.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  substantial  justice  in  the  contention  of 
his  daughter.  Dave  had  no  business  getting  mixed  up 
in  this  row.  The  fact  that  he  was  an  ex-convict  would 
be  in  itself  a  damning  thing  in  case  the  courts  ever  had 
to  pass  upon  the  feud's  results.  The  conviction  on  the 
records  against  him  would  make  a  second  conviction 
very  much  easier. 

"You're  right,  Bob.  Dave  won't  let  Dug's  crowd 
run  him  out.  But  you  keep  an  eye  on  him.  Don't  let 
him  go  out  alone  nights.  See  he  packs  a  gun." 

"Packs  a  gun!"  Joyce  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair 
under  the  glow  of  the  lamp.  She  was  darning  one  of 
Keith's  stockings,  and  to  the  young  man  watching  her 
—  so  wholly  winsome  girl,  so  much  tender  but  business- 
like little  mother  —  she  was  the  last  word  in  the  de- 
sirability of  woman.  "That's  the  very  way  to  find 
trouble,  Dad.  He's  been  doing  his  best  to  keep  out  of 
it.  He  can't,  if  he  stays  here.  So  he  must  go  away, 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Her  father  laughed.  "Ain't  it  scandalous  the  way 
she  bosses  us  all  around,  Bob?" 


146  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

The  face  of  the  girl  sparkled  to  a  humorous  challenge. 
"Well,  some  one  has  got  to  boss  you-all  boys,  Dad.  If 
you'd  do  as  I  say  you  would  n't  have  any  trouble  with 
that  old  Steelman  or  his  gunmen." 

"We  wouldn't  have  any  oil  wells  either,  would  we, 
honey?" 

"They're  not  worth  having  if  you  and  Dave  Sanders 
and  Bob  have  to  live  in  danger  all  the  time,"  she  flashed. 

"Glad  you  look  at  it  that  way,  Joy,"  Emerson  re- 
torted with  a  rueful  smile.  "Fact  is,  we  ain't  goin'  to 
have  any  more  oil  wells  than  a  jackrabbit  pretty  soon. 
I  'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope  right  now.  The  First  National 
promised  me  another  loan  on  the  Arizona  ranch,  but 
Brad  has  got  a-holt  of  it  and  he's  called  in  my  last  loan. 
I'm  not  quittin'.  I'll  put  up  a  fight  yet,  but  unless 
things  break  for  me  I'm  about  done." 

"Oh,  Dad!"  Her  impulse  of  sympathy  carried  Joyce 
straight  to  him.  Soft,  rounded  arms  went  round  his 
neck  with  impassioned  tenderness.  "I  did  n't  dream  it 
was  as  bad  as  that.  You ' ve  been  worrying  all  this  time 
and  you  never  let  me  know." 

He  stroked  her  hair  fondly.  "You're  the  blamedest 
little  mother  ever  I  did  see  —  always  was.  Now  don't 
you  fret.  It'll  work  out  somehow.  Things  do." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  HOLD-UP 

To  Sanders,  working  on  afternoon  tower  at  Jackpot 
Number  Three,  the  lean,  tanned  driller  in  charge  of 
operations  was  wise  with  an  uncanny  knowledge  the 
newcomer  could  not  fathom.  For  eight  hours  at  a 
stretch  he  stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  a  greasy 
cable  go  slipping  into  the  earth.  Every  quiver  of  it, 
every  motion  of  the  big  walking-beam,  every  kick  of 
the  engine,  told  him  what  was  taking  place  down  that 
narrow  pipe  two  thousand  feet  below  the  surface.  He 
knew  when  the  tools  were  in  clay  and  had  become 
gummed  up.  He  could  tell  just  when  the  drill  had  cut 
into  hard  rock  at  an  acute  angle  and  was  running  out 
of  the  perpendicular  to  follow  the  softer  stratum.  His 
judgment  appeared  infallible  as  to  whether  he  ought 
to  send  down  a  reamer  to  straighten  the  kink.  All  Dave 
knew  was  that  a  string  of  tools  far  underground  was 
jerking  up  and  down  monotonously. 

This  spelt  romance  to  Jed  Burns,  superintendent  of 
operations,  though  he  would  never  have  admitted  it. 
He  was  a  bachelor;  always  would  be  one.  Hard-work- 
ing, hard-drinking,  at  odd  times  a  plunging  gambler,  he 
lived  for  nothing  but  oil  and  the  atmosphere  of  oil  fields. 
From  one  boom  to  another  he  drifted,  as  inevitably  as 
the  gamblers,  grafters,  and  organizers  of  "fake"  com- 
panies. Several  times  he  had  made  fortunes,  but  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  stay  rich.  He  was  always  ready 


148  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

to  back  a  drilling  proposition  that  looked  promising, 
and  no  independent  speculator  can  continue  to  wildcat 
without  going  broke. 

He  was  sifting  sand  through  his  fingers  when  Dave 
came  on  tower  the  day  after  the  flood.  To  Bob  Hart, 
present  as  Crawford's  personal  representative,  he  ex- 
pressed an  opinion. 

"  Right  soon  now  or  never.  Sand  tastes,  feels,  looks, 
and  smells  like  oil.  But  you  can't  ever  be  sure.  An  oil 
prospect  is  like  a  woman.  She  will  or  she  won't,  you 
never  can  tell  which.  Then,  if  she  does,  she's  liable  to 
change  her  mind." 

Dave  sniffed  the  pleasing,  pungent  odor  of  the  crude 
oil  sands.  His  friend  had  told  him  that  Crawford's  fate 
Lung  in  the  balance.  Unless  oil  flowed  very  soon  in 
paying  quantities  he  was  a  ruined  man.  The  control  of 
the  Jackpot  properties  would  probably  pass  into  the 
hands  of  Steelman.  The  cattleman  would  even  lose  the 
ranches  which  had  been  the  substantial  basis  of  his 
earlier  prosperity. 

Everybody  working  on  the  Jackpot  felt  the  excite- 
ment as  the  drill  began  to  sink  into  the  oil-bearing 
sands.  Most  of  the  men  owned  stock  in  the  company. 
Moreover,  they  were  getting  a  bonus  for  their  services 
and  had  been  promised  an  extra  one  if  Number  Three 
struck  oil  in  paying  quantities  before  Steelman' s  crew 
did.  Even  to  an  outsider  there  is  a  fascination  in  an  oil 
well.  It  is  as  absorbing  to  the  drillers  as  a  girl's  mind 
is  to  her  hopeful  lover.  Dave  found  it  impossible  to 
escape  the  contagion  of  this.  Moreover,  he  had  ten 
thousand  shares  in  the  Jackpot,  stock  turned  over  to 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  149 

him  out  of  the  treasury  supply  by  the  board  of  directors 
in  recognition  of  services  which  they  did  not  care  to 
specify  in  the  resolution  which  authorized  the  transfer. 
At  first  he  had  refused  to  accept  this,  but  Bob  Hart  had 
put  the  matter  to  him  in  such  a  light  that  he  changed 
his  mind. 

6 'The  oil  business  pays  big  for  expert  advice,  no 
matter  whether  it's  legal  or  technical.  What  you  did 
was  worth  fifty  times  what  the  board  voted  you.  If  we 
make  a  big  strike  you've  saved  the  company.  If  we 
don't  the  stock's  not  worth  a  plugged  nickel  anyhow. 
You've  earned  wKat  we  voted  you.  Hang  on  to  it, 
Dave." 

Dave  had  thanked  the  board  and  put  the  stock  in 
his  pocket.  Now  he  felt  himself  drawn  into  the  drama 
represented  by  the  thumping  engine  which  continued 
day  and  night. 

After  his  shift  was  over,  he  rode  to  town  with  Bob 
behind  his  team  of  wild  broncos. 

"Got  to  look  for  an  engineer  for  the  night  tower," 
Hart  explained  as  he  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Gusher 
Saloon.  "Come  in  with  me.  It's  some  gambling-hell, 
if  you  ask  me." 

The  place  hummed  with  the  turbulent  life  that  drifts 
to  every  wild  frontier  on  the  boom.  Faro  dealers  from 
the  Klondike,  poker  dealers  from  Nome,  roulette 
croupiers  from  Leadville,  w^ere  all  here  to  reap  the  rich 
harvest  to  be  made  from  investors,  field  workers,  and 
operators.  Smooth  grafters  with  stock  in  worthless 
companies  for  sale  circulated  in  and  out  with  blue-prints 
and  whispered  inside  information.  The  men  who  were 


150  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

ranged  in  front  of  the  bar,  behind  which  half  a  dozen 
attendants  in  white  aprons  busily  waited  on  their  wants, 
usually  talked  oil  and  nothing  but  oil.  To-day  they 
had  another  theme.  The  same  subject  engrossed  the 
groups  scattered  here  and  there  throughout  the  large 
hall. 

In  the  rear  of  the  room  were  the  faro  layouts,  the 
roulette  wheels,  and  the  poker  players.  Around  each 
of  these  the  shifting  crowd  surged.  Mexicans,  Chinese, 
and  even  Indians  brushed  shoulders  with  white  men 
of  many  sorts  and  conditions.  The  white-faced  profes- 
sional gambler  was  in  evidence,  winning  the  money  of 
big  brown  men  in  miner's  boots  and  corduroys.  The 
betting  was  wild  and  extravagant,  for  the  spirit  of  the 
speculator  had  carried  away  the  cool  judgment  of  most 
of  these  men.  They  had  seen  a  barber  become  a  million- 
aire in  a  day  because  the  company  in  which  he  had 
plunged  had  struck  a  gusher.  They  had  seen  the  same 
man  borrow  five  dollars  three  months  later  to  carry 
him  over  until  he  got  a  job.  Riches  were  pouring  out  of 
the  ground  for  the  gambler  who  would  take  a  chance. 
Thrift  was  a  much-discredited  virtue  in  Malapi.  The 
one  unforgivable  vice  was  to  be  "a  piker." 

Bob  found  his  man  at  a  faro  table.  While  the  cards 
were  being  shuffled,  he  engaged  him  to  come  out  next 
evening  to  the  Jackpot  properties.  As  soon  as  the  dealer 
began  to  slide  the  cards  out  of  the  case  the  attention  of 
the  engineer  went  back  to  his  bets. 

While  Dave  was  standing  close  to  the  wall,  ready  to 
leave  as  soon  as  Bob  returned  to  him,  he  caught  sight 
of  an  old  acquaintance.  Steve  Russell  was  playing  stud 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  151 

poker  at  a  table  a  few  feet  from  him.  The  cowpuncher 
looked  up  and  waved  his  hand. 

4 'See  you  in  a  minute,  Dave,"  he  called,  and  as  soon 
as  the  pot  had  been  won  he  said  to  the  man  shuffling 
the  cards,  "Deal  me  out  this  hand." 

He  rose,  stepped  across  to  Sanders,  and  shook  hands 
with  a  strong  grip.  "You  darned  old  son-of-a-gun!  I'm 
sure  glad  to  see  you.  Heard  you  was  back.  Say,  you've 
ce'tainly  been  goin'  some.  Suits  me.  I  never  did  like 
either  Dug  or  Miller  a  whole  lot.  Dug's  one  sure- 
enough  bad  man  and  Miller 's  a  tinhorn  would-be.  What 
you  did  to  both  of  'em  was  a-plenty.  But  keep  yore  eye 
peeled,  old-timer.  Miller's  where  he  belongs  again,  but 
Dug 's  still  on  the  range,  and  you  can  bet  he's  seein'  red 
these  days.  He'll  gun  you  if  he  gets  half  a  chance." 

"Yes,"  said  Dave  evenly. 

"You  don't  figure  to  let  yoreself  get  caught  again 
without  a  six-shooter."  Steve  put  the  statement  with 
the  rising  inflection. 

"No." 

"Tha's  right.  Don't  let  him  get  the  drop  on  you. 
He's  sudden  death  with  a  gun." 

Bob  joined  them.  After  a  moment's  conversation 
Russell  drew  them  to  a  corner  of  the  room  that  for  the 
moment  was  almost  deserted. 

"Say,  you  heard  the  news,  Bob?" 

"I  can  tell  you  that  better  after  I  know  what  it  is," 
returned  Hart  with  a  grin. 

"The  stage  was  held  up  at  Cotton  wood  Bend  and 
robbed  of  seventeen  thousand  dollars.  The  driver  was 
killed." 


152  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"When?" 

"This  mo'nin'.  They  tried  to  keep  it  quiet,  but  it 
leaked  out." 

"Whose  money  was  it?" 

"Brad  Steelman's  pay  roll  and  a  shipment  of  gold  for 
the  bank." 

"Any  idea  who  did  it?" 

Steve  showed  embarrassment.  "Why,  no,  I  ain't,  if 
that's  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  anybody  else?" 

"Tha's  what  I  wanta  tell  you.  Two  men  were  in  the 
job.  They're  whisperin'  that  Em  Crawford  was  one." 

"Crawford!  Some  of  Steelman's  fine  work  in  that 
rumor,  I'll  bet.  He's  crazy  if  he  thinks  he  can  get  away 
with  that.  Tha's  plumb  foolish  talk.  What  evidence 
does  he  claim?"  demanded  Hart. 

"Em  deposited  ten  thousand  with  the  First  National 
to  pay  off  a  note  he  owed  the  bank.  Rode  into  town 
right  straight  to  the  bank  two  hours  after  the  stage  got 
in.  Then,  too,  seems  one  of  the  hold-ups  called  the 
other  one  Crawford." 

"A  plant,"  said  Dave  promptly. 

"Looks  like."  Bob's  voice  was  rich  with  sarcasm. 
"I  don't  reckon  the  other  one  rose  up  on  his  hind  laigs 
and  said,  'I'm  Bob  Hart,'  did  he?" 

"They  claim  the  second  man  was  Dave  here." 

"Hmp!  What  time  d' you  say  this  hold-up  took 
place?" 

"Must  'a'  been  about  eleven." 

"Lets  Dave  out.  He  was  fifteen  miles  away,  and  we 
can  prove  it  by  at  least  six  witnesses." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  153 

"Good.   I  reckon  Em  can  put  in  an  alibi  too." 

"I'll  bet  he  can."  Hart  promised  this  with  convic- 
tion. 

"Trouble  is  they  say  they've  got  witnesses  to  show 
Em  was  travelin'  toward  the  Bend  half  an  hour  before 
the  hold-up.  Art  Johnson  and  Clem  Purdy  met  him 
while  they  was  on  their  way  to  town." 

"Was  Crawford  alone?" 

"He  was  then.   Yep." 

"Any  one  might  'a'  been  there.  You  might.  I  might. 
That  don't  prove  a  thing." 

"Hell,  I  know  Em  Crawford's  not  mixed  up  in  any 
hold-up,  let  alone  a  damned  cowardly  murder.  You 
don't  need  to  tell  me  that.  Point  is  that  evidence  is 
pilin'  up.  Where  did  Em  get  the  ten  thousand  to  pay 
the  bank?  Two  days  ago  he  was  try  in'  to  increase  the 
loan  the  First  National  had  made  him." 

Dave  spoke.  "I  don't  know  where  he  got  it,  but  un- 
less he 's  a  born  fool  —  and  nobody  ever  claimed  that  of 
Crawford  —  he  would  n't  take  the  money  straight  to 
the  bank  after  he  had  held  up  the  stage  and  killed  the 
driver.  That's  a  strong  point  in  his  favor." 

"If  he  can  show  where  he  got  the  ten  thousand," 
amended  Russell.  "And  of  course  he  can." 

"And  where  he  spent  that  two  hours  after  the  hold- 
up before  he  came  to  town.  That'll  have  to  be  ex- 
plained too,"  said  Bob. 

"Oh,  Em  he'll  be  able  to  explain  that  all  right," 
decided  Steve  cheerfully. 

* '  Where  is  Crawford  now  ?  "  asked  Dave.  *  *  He  has  n't 
been  arrested,  has  he?" 


154  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Not  yet.  But  lie's  bein'  watched.  Soon  as  he 
showed  up  at  the  bank  the  sheriff  asked  to  look  at  his 
six-shooter.  Two  cartridges  had  been  fired.  One  of  the 
passengers  on  the  stage  told  me  two  shots  was  fired 
from  a  six-gun  by  the  boss  hold-up.  The  second  one 
killed  old  Tim  Harrigan?' 

"Did  they  accuse  Crawford  of  the  killing?" 

"Not  directly.  He  was  asked  to  explain.  I  ain't 
heard  what  his  story  was." 

"We'd  better  go  to  his  house  and  talk  with  him," 
suggested  Hart.  "Maybe  he  can  give  as  good  an  alibi 
as  you,  Dave." 

"You  and  I  will  go  straight  there,"  decided  Sanders. 
"Steve,  get  three  saddle  horses.  We'll  ride  out  to  the 
Bend  and  see  what  we  can  learn  on  the  ground." 

"I'll  cash  my  chips,  get  the  broncs,  and  meet  you 
lads  at  Crawford's,"  said  Russell  promptly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
NUMBER  THREE  COMES  IN 

JOYCE  opened  the  door  to  the  knock  of  the  young  men. 
At  sight  of  them  her  face  lit. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!"  she  cried,  tears  in 
her  voice.  She  caught  her  hands  together  in  a  convul- 
sive little  gesture.  "  Is  n't  it  dreadful?  I  've  been  afraid 
all  the  time  that  something  awful  would  happen  —  and 
now  it  has." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Miss  Joyce,"  Bob  told  her  cheer- 
fully. "We  ain't  gonna  let  anything  happen  to  yore 
paw.  We  aim  to  get  busy  right  away  and  run  this  thing 
down.  Looks  like  a  frame-up.  If  it  is,  you  betcha  we  '11 
get  at  the  truth." 

"Will  you?  Can  you?"  She  turned  to  Dave  in  ap- 
peal, eyes  starlike  in  a  face  that  was  a  white  and  shining 
oval  in  the  semi-darkness. 

"We  '11  try,"  he  said  simply. 

Something  in  the  way  he  said  it,  in  the  quiet  reti- 
cence of  his  promise,  sent  courage  flowing  to  her  heart. 
She  had  called  on  him  once  before,  and  he  had  answered 
splendidly  and  recklessly. 

"Where's  Mr.  Crawford?"  asked  Bob. 

"He's  in  the  sitting-room.    Come  right  in." 

Her  father  was  sitting  in  a  big  chair,  one  leg  thrown 
carelessly  over  the  arm.  He  was  smoking  a  cigar  com- 
posedly. 

"Come  in,  boys,"  he  called.  "Reckon  you've  heard 
that  I'm  a  stage  rustler  and  a  murderer." 


156  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Joyce  cried  out  at  this,  the  wide,  mobile  mouth 
trembling. 

4 'Just  now.  At  the  Gusher,"  said  Bob.  "They 
did  n't  arrest  you?" 

"Not  yet.  They're  watchin'  the  house.  Sit  down, 
and  I '11  tell  it  to  you." 

He  had  gone  out  to  see  a  homesteader  about  doing 
some  work  for  him.  On  the  way  he  had  met  Johnson 
and  Purdy  near  the  Bend,  just  before  he  had  turned  up 
a  draw  leading  to  the  place  in  the  hills  owned  by  the 
man  whom  he  wanted  to  see.  Two  hours  had  been  spent 
riding  to  the  little  valley  where  the  nester  had  built  his 
corrals  and  his  log  house,  and  when  Crawford  arrived 
neither  he  nor  his  wife  was  at  home.  He  returned  to  the 
road,  without  having  met  a  soul  since  he  had  left  it, 
and  from  there  jogged  on  back  to  town.  On  the  way  he 
had  fired  twice  at  a  rattlesnake. 

u  You  never  reached  the  Bend,  then,  at  all,"  said  Dave. 

"No,  but  I  cayn't  prove  I  did  n't."  The  old  cattle- 
man looked  at  the  end  of  his  cigar  thoughtfully.  "Nor 
I  cayn't  prove  I  went  out  to  Dick  Grein's  place  in  that 
three-four  hours  not  accounted  for." 

"Anyhow,  you  can  show  where  you  got  the  ten 
thousand  dollars  you  paid  the  bank,"  said  Bob  hope- 
fully. 

A  moment  of  silence;  then  Crawford  spoke.  "No, 
son,  I  cayn't  tell  that  either." 

Faint  and  breathless  with  suspense,  Joyce  looked  at 
her  father  with  dilated  eyes.  "Why  not?" 

"Because  the  money  was  loaned  me  on  those  con- 
ditions." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  157 

"But  —  but  —  don't  you  see,  Dad?  —  if  you  don't 
tell  that  —  " 

"They'll  think  I'm  guilty.  Well,  I  reckon  they'll 
have  to  think  it,  Joy."  The  steady  gray  eyes  looked 
straight  into  the  brown  ones  of  the  girl.  "I've  been  in 
this  county  boy  and  man  for  'most  fifty  years.  Any  one 
that's  willin'  to  think  me  a  cold-blooded  murderer  at 
this  date,  why,  he's  welcome  to  hold  any  opinion  he 
pleases.  I  don't  give  a  damn  what  he  thinks." 

"But  we've  got  to  prove  —  " 

"No,  we  haven't.  They've  got  to  do  the  proving* 
The  law  holds  me  innocent  till  I'm  found  guilty." 

"But  you  don't  aim  to  keep  still  and  let  a  lot  of  mis- 
creants blacken  yo^e  good  name!"  suggested  Hart. 

"You  bet  I  do  /t,  Bob.  But  I  reckon  I'll  not  break 
my  word  to  a  friend  either,  especially  under  the  circum- 
stances this  money  was  loaned." 

"He'll  release  you  when  he  understands,"  cried  Joyce. 

"Don't  bank  on  that,  honey,"  Crawford  said  slowly. 
"You  ain't  to  mention  this.  I'm  tellin'  you  three  pri- 
vate. He  cayn't  come  out  and  tell  that  he  let  me  have 
the  money.  Understand?  You  don't  any  of  you  know  a 
thing  about  how  I  come  by  that  ten  thousand.  I've  re- 
fused to  answej  questions  about  that  money.  That's 
my  business." 

"Oh,  but,  Dad,  you  can't  do  that.  You'll  have  to 
give  an  explanation.  You'll  have  to  — " 

"The  best  explanation  I  can  give,  Joy,  is  to  find  out 
who  held  up  the  stage  and  killed  Tim  Harrigan.  It 's  the 
only  one  that  will  satisfy  me.  It's  the  only  one  that  will 
satisfy  my  friends." 


158  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"That's  true,"  said  Sanders. 

"Steve  Russell  is  bringin'  hawsses,"  said  Bob.  "We  '11 
ride  out  to  the  Bend  to-night  and  be  ready  for  business 
there  at  the  first  streak  of  light.  Must  be  some  trail  left 
by  the  hold-ups." 

Crawford  shook  his  head.  "Probably  not.  Applegate 
had  a  posse  out  there  right  away.  You  know  Applegate. 
He  'd  blunder  if  he  had  a  chance.  His  boys  have  milled 
all  over  the  place  and  destroyed  any  trail  that  was 
left." 

"We'll  go  out  anyhow  —  Dave  and  Steve  and  I. 
Won't  do  any  harm.  We're  liable  to  discover  some- 
thing, don't  you  reckon?" 

"Maybeso.   Who's  that  knockin'  on  the  door,  Joy?" 

Some  one  was  rapping  on  the  front  door  imperatively. 
The  girl  opened  it,  to  let  into  the  hall  a  man  in  greasy 
overalls. 

"Where's  Mr.  Crawford?"  he  demanded  excitedly. 

"Here.   In  the  sitting-room.   What's  wrong?" 

"Wrong!  Not  a  thing!"  He  talked  as  he  followed 
Joyce  to  the  door  of  the  room.  "Except  that  Number 
Three's  come  in  the  biggest  gusher  ever  I  see.  She's 
knocked  the  whole  superstructure  galley- west  an'  she's 
rip-r'arin'  to  beat  the  Dutch." 

Emerson  Crawford  leaped  to  his  feet,  for  once  visibly 
excited.  "What?"  he  demanded.  "Wha's  that?" 

"Jus'  like  I  say.  The  oil's  a-spoutin'  up  a  hundred 
feet  like  a  fan.  Before  mornin'  the  sump  holes  will  be 
full  and  she'll  be  runnin'  all  over  the  prairie." 

"Burns  sent  you?" 

"Yep.  Says  for  you  to  get  men  and  teams  and  scrap- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  159 

ers  and  gunnysacks  and  heavy  timbers  out  there  right 
away.  Many  as  you  can  send." 

Crawford  turned  to  Bob,  his  face  aglow.  "Yore  job, 
Bob.  Spread  the  news.  Rustle  up  everybody  you  can 
get.  Arrange  with  the  railroad  grade  contractor  to  let 
us  have  all  his  men,  teams,  and  scrapers  till  we  get  her 
hogtied  and  harnessed.  Big  wages  and  we'll  feed  the 
whole  outfit  free.  Hire  anybody  you  can  find.  Buy  a 
coupla  hundred  shovels  and  send  'em  out  to  Number 
Three.  Get  Robinson  to  move  his  tent-restaurant  out 
there." 

Hart  nodded.  "What  about  this  job  at  the  Bend?" 
'he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Dave  and  I'll  attend  to  that.  You  hump  on  the 
Jackpot  job.  Sons,  we're  rich,  all  three  of  us.  Point  is 
to  keep  from  losin'  that  crude  on  the  prairie.  Keep 
three  shifts  goin'  till  she's  under  control." 

"We  can't  do  anything  at  the  Bend  till  morning," 
said  Dave.  "We'd  better  put  the  night  in  helping 
Bob." 

"Sure.  We've  got  to  get  all  Malapi  busy.  A  dozen 
business  men  have  got  to  come  down  and  open  up  their 
stores  so's  we  can  get  supplies,"  agreed  Emerson. 

Joyce,  her  face  flushed  and  eager,  broke  in.  "Ring 
the  fire  bell.  That's  the  quickest  way." 

"Sure  enough.  You  got  a  haid  on  yore  shoulders. 
Dave,  you  attend  to  that.  Bob,  hit  the  dust  for  the  big 
saloons  and  gather  men.  I'll  see  O'Connor  about  the 
railroad  outfit;  then  I'll  come  down  to  the  fire-house 
and  talk  to  the  crowd.  We'll  wake  this  old  town  up  to- 
night, sons." 


160  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"What  about  me?"  asked  the  messenger. 

"You  go  back  and  tell  Jed  to  hold  the  fort  till  Hart 
and  his  material  arrives." 

Outside,  they  met  Russell  riding  down  the  road,  two 
saddled  horses  following.  With  a  word  of  explanation 
they  helped  themselves  to  his  mounts  while  he  stared 
after  them  in  surprise. 

"I'll  be  dawggoned  if  they-all  ain't  three  gents  in  a 
hurry,"  he  murmured  to  the  breezes  of  the  night. 
"Well,  seein'  as  I  been  held  up,  I  reckon  I'll  have  to 
walk  back  while  the  tLawss-thieves  ride." 

Five  minutes  lateif  the  fire-bell  clanged  out  its  call  to 
Malapi.  From  roadside  tent  and  gambling-hell,  from 
houses  and  camp-fires,  men  and  women  poured  into  the 
streets.  For  Malapi  was  a  shell-town,  tightly  packed 
and  inflammable,  likely  to  go  up  in  smoke  whenever  a 
fire  should  get  beyond  control  of  the  volunteer  com- 
pany. Almost  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  the 
square  was  packed  with  hundreds  of  lightly  clad  people 
and  other  hundreds  just  emerging  from  the  night  life  of 
the  place. 

The  clangor  of  the  bell  died  away,  but  the  firemen 
did  not  run  out  the  hose  and  bucket  cart.  The  man  tug- 
ging the  rope  had  told  them  why  he  was  summoning 
the  citizens. 

"Some  one's  got  to  go  out  and  explain  to  the  crowd," 
said  the  fire  chief  to  Dave.  "If  you  know  about  this 
strike  you'll  have  to  tell  the  boys." 

"Crawford  said  he'd  talk,"  answered  Sanders. 

"He  ain't  here.  It's  up  to  you.  Go  ahead.  Just  tell 
'em  why  you  rang  the  bell." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  161 

Dave  found  himself  pushed  forward  to  the  steps  of  the 
court-house  a  few  yards  away.  He  had  never  before  at- 
tempted to  speak  in  public,  and  he  had  a  queer,  dry 
tightening  of  the  throat.  But  as  soon  as  he  began  to 
talk  the  words  he  wanted  came  easily  enough. 

"Jackpot  Number  Three  has  come  in  a  big  gusher," 
he  said,  lifting  his  voice  so  that  it  would  carry  to  the 
edge  of  the  crowd. 

Hundreds  of  men  in  the  crowd  owned  stock  in  the 
Jackpot  properties.  At  Dave's  words  a  roar  went  up 
into  the  night.  Men  shouted,  danced,  or  merely  smiled, 
according  to  their  temperament.  Presently  the  thirst 
for  news  dominated  the  enthusiasm.  Gradually  the  up- 
roar was  stilled. 

Again  Dave's  voice  rang  out  clear  as  the  bell  he  had 
been  tolling.  "The  report  is  that  it's  one  of  the  biggest 
strikes  ever  known  in  the  State.  The  derrick  has  been 
knocked  to  pieces  and  the  oil's  shooting  into  the  air  a 
hundred  feet." 

A  second  great  shout  drowned  his  words.  This  was 
an  oil  crowd.  It  dreamed  oil,  talked  oil,  thought  oil, 
prayed  for  oil.  A  stranger  in  the  town  was  likely  to 
feel  at  first  that  the  place  was  oil  mad.  What  else  can 
be  said  of  a  town  with  derricks  built  through  its  front 
porches  and  even  the  graveyard  leased  to  a  drilling 
company? 

"The  sump  holes  are  filling,"  went  on  Sanders. 
"Soon  the  oil  will  be  running  to  waste  on  the  prairie. 
We  need  men,  teams,  tools,  wagons,  hundreds  of  slick- 
ers, tents,  beds,  grub.  The  wages  will  be  one-fifty  a  day 
more  than  the  run  of  wages  in  the  camp  until  the  emer- 


162  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

gency  has  been  met,  and  Emerson  Crawford  will  board 
all  the  volunteers  who  come  out  to  dig." 

The  speaker  was  lost  again,  this  time  in  a  buzz  of 
voices  of  excited  men.  But  out  of  the  hubbub  Dave's 
shout  became  heard. 

"All  owners  of  teams  and  tools,  all  dealers  in  hard- 
ware and  groceries,  are  asked  to  step  to  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  crowd  for  a  talk  with  Mr.  Crawford.  Men 
willing  to  work  till  the  gusher  is  under  control,  please 
meet  Bob  Hart  in  front  of  the  fire-house.  I'll  see  any 
cooks  and  restaurant-men  alive  to  a  chance  to  make 
money  fast.  Right  here  at  the  steps." 

"Good  medicine,  son,"  boomed  Emerson  Crawford, 
slapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Did  n't  know  you  was 
an  orator,  but  you  sure  got  this  crowd  goin'.  Bob  here 

yet?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  him  a  minute  ago  in  the  crowd.  Sorry  1 
had  to  make  promises  for  you,  but  the  fire  chief  would 
n't  let  me  keep  the  crowd  waiting.  Some  one  had  to 
talk." 

"Suits  me.  I'll  run  you  for  Congress  one  o*  these 
days."  Then,  "I'll  send  the  grocery-men  over  to  you. 
Tell  them  to  get  the  grub  out  to-night.  If  the  restaur- 
ant-men don't  buy  it  I'll  run  my  own  chuck  wagon  out- 
fit. See  you  later,  Dave." 

For  the  next  twenty-four  hours  there  was  no  night  in 
Malapi.  Streets  were  filled  with  shoutings,  hurried  foot- 
falls, the  creaking  of  wagons,  and  the  thud  of  galloping 
horses.  Stores  were  lit  up  and  filled  with  buyers.  For 
once  the  Gusher  and  the  Oil  Pool  and  other  resorts  held 
small  attraction  for  the  crowds.  The  town  was  moving 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  163 

out  to  see  the  big  new  discovery  that  was  to  revolution- 
ize its  fortunes  with  the  opening  of  a  new  and  tremen- 
dously rich  field.  Every  ancient  rig  available  was  pressed 
into  service  to  haul  men  or  supplies  out  to  the  Jackpot 
location.  Scarcely  a  minute  passed,  after  the  time  that 
the  first  team  took  the  road,  without  a  loaded  wagon, 
packed  to  the  sideboards,  moving  along  the  dusty  road 
into  the  darkness  of  the  desert. 

Three  travelers  on  horseback  rode  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Their  destination  was  Cottonwood  Bend. 
Two  of  them  were  Emerson  Crawford  and  David  San- 
ders. The  third  was  an  oil  prospector  who  had  been  a 
passenger  on  the  stage  when  it  was  robbed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  GUSHER 

JACKPOT  NUMBER  THREE  had  come  in  with  a  roar  that 
shook  the  earth  for  half  a  mile.  Deep  below  the  surface 
there  was  a  hiss  and  a  crackle,  the  shock  of  rending 
strata  giving  ^ay  to  the  pressure  of  the  oil  pool.  From 
long  experience  as  a  driller,  Jed  Burns  knew  what  was 
coming.  He  swept  his  crew  back  from  the  platform,  and 
none  too  soon  to  escape  disaster.  They  were  still  flying 
across  the  prairie  when  the  crown  box  catapulted  into 
the  sky  and  the  whole  drilling  superstructure  toppled 
over.  Rocks,  clay,  and  sand  were  hurled  into  the  air,  to 
come  down  in  a  shower  that  bombarded  everything 
within  a  radius  of  several  hundred  yards. 

The  landscape  next  moment  was  drenched  in  black 
petroleum.  The  fine  particles  of  it  filled  the  air,  sprayed 
the  cactus  and  the  greasewood.  Rivulets  of  the  viscid 
stuff  began  to  gather  in  depressions  and  to  flow  in  gath- 
ering volume,  as  tributaries  joined  the  stream,  into  the 
sump  holes  prepared  for  it.  The  pungent  odor  of  crude 
oil,  as  well  as  the  touch  and  the  taste  of  it,  penetrated 
the  atmosphere. 

Burns  counted  noses  and  discovered  that  none  of  his 
crew  had  been  injured  by  falling  rocks  or  beams.  He 
knew  that  his  men  could  not  possibly  cope  with  this 
geyser  on  a  spree.  It  was  a  big  strike,  the  biggest  in  the 
history  of  the  district,  and  to  control  the  flow  of  the  gusher 
would  necessitate  tremendous  efforts  on  a  wholesale  plan. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  165 

One  of  his  men  he  sent  in  to  Malapi  on  horseback 
with  a  hurry-up  call  to  Emerson  Crawford,  president 
of  the  company,  for  tools,  machinery,  men,  and  teams. 
The  others  he  put  to  salvaging  the  engine  and  accesso- 
ries and  to  throwing  up  an  earth  dike  around  the  sump 
hole  as  a  barrier  against  the  escaping  crude.  All  through 
the  night  he  fought  impotently  against  this  giant  that 
had  burst  loose  from  its  prison  two  thousand  feet  below 
the  surface  of  the  earth. 

With  the  first  faint  streaks  of  day  men  came  galloping 
across  the  desert  to  the  Jackpot.  They  came  at  first  on 
horseback,  singly,  and  later  by  twos  and  threes.  A 
buckboard  appeared  on  the  horizon,  the  driver  leaning 
forward  as  he  urged  on  his  team. 

"Hart,"  decided  the  driller,  "and  comin'  hell-for- 
leather." 

Other  teams  followed,  buggies,  surreys,  light  wagons, 
farm  wagons,  and  at  last  heavily  laden  lumber  wagons. 
Business  in  Malapi  was  "shot  to  pieces,"  as  one  mer- 
chant expressed  it.  Everybody  who  could  possibly  get 
away  was  out  to  see  the  big  gusher. 

There  was  an  immediate  stampede  to  make  locations 
in  the  territory  adjacent.  The  wildcatter  flourished. 
Companies  were  formed  in  ten  minutes  and  the  stock 
subscribed  for  in  half  an  hour.  From  the  bootblack  at 
the  hotel  to  the  banker,  everybody  wanted  stock  in 
every  company  drilling  within  a  reasonable  distance  of 
Jackpot  Number  Three.  Many  legitimate  incorpora- 
tions appeared  on  the  books  of  the  Secretary  of  State, 
and  along  with  these  were  scores  of  frauds  intended  only 
to  gull  the  small  investor  and  separate  him  from  his 


166  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

money.  Saloons  and  gambling-houses,  which  did  busi- 
ness with  such  childlike  candor  and  stridency,  became 
offices  for  the  sale  and  exchange  of  stock.  The  boom  at 
Malapi  got  its  second  wind.  Workmen,  investors,  capi- 
talists, and  crooks  poured  in  to  take  advantage  of  the 
inflation  brought  about  by  the  new  strike  in  a  hitherto 
unknown  field.  For  the  fame  of  Jackpot  Number  Three 
tad  spread  wide.  The  production  guesses  ranged  all  the 
way  from  ten  to  fifty  thousand  barrels  a  day,  most  of 
which  was  still  going  to  waste  on  the  desert. 

For  Burns  and  Hart  had  not  yet  gained  control  over 
the  flow,  though  an  army  of  men  in  overalls  and  slickers 
fought  the  gusher  night  and  day.  The  flow  never  ceased 
for  a  moment.  The  well  steadily  spouted  a  stream  of 
black  liquid  into  the  air  from  the  subterranean  chamber 
into  which  the  underground  lake  poured. 

The  attack  had  two  objectives.  The  first  was  to 
check  the  outrush  of  oil.  The  second  was  to  save  the 
wealth  emerging  from  the  mouth  of  the  well  and  stream- 
ing over  the  lip  of  the  reservoir  to  the  sandy  desert. 

A  crew  of  men,  divided  into  three  shifts,  worked  with 
pick,  shovel,  and  scraper  to  dig  a  second  and  a  third 
sump  hole.  The  dirt  from  the  excavation  was  dumped 
at  the  edge  of  the  working  to  build  a  dam  for  the  fluid. 
Sacks  filled  with  wet  sand  reinforced  this  dirt. 

Meanwhile  the  oil  boiled  up  in  the  lake  and  flowed 
over  its  edges  in  streams.  As  soon  as  the  second  reser- 
voir was  ready  the  tarry  stuff  was  siphoned  into  it  from 
the  original  sump  hole.  By  the  time  this  was  full  a  third 
pool  was  finished,  and  into  it  the  overflow  was  diverted. 
But  in  spite  of  the  great  effort  made  to  save  the  product 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  167 

of  the  gusher,  the  sands  absorbed  many  thousands  of 
dollars'  worth  of  petroleum. 

This  end  of  the  work  was  under  the  direction  of  Bob 
Hart.  For  ten  days  he  did  not  take  off  his  clothes. 
When  he  slept  it  was  in  cat  naps,  an  hour  snatched  now 
and  again  from  the  fight  with  the  rising  tide  of  wealth 
that  threatened  to  engulf  its  owners.  He  was  unshaven, 
unbathed,  his  clothes  slimy  with  tar  and  grease.  He  ate 
on  the  job  —  coffee,  beans,  bacon,  cornbread,  whatever 
the  cooks'  flunkies  brought  him  —  and  did  not  know 
what  he  was  eating.  Gaunt  and  dominating,  with  crisp 
decision  and  yet  unfailing  good-humor,  he  bossed  the 
gangs  under  him  and  led  them  into  the  fight,  holding 
them  at  it  till  flesh  and  blood  revolted  with  weariness. 
Of  such  stuff  is  the  true  outdoor  Westerner  made.  He 
may  drop  in  his  tracks  from  exhaustion  after  the  emer- 
gency has  been  met,  but  so  long  as  the  call  for  action 
lasts  he  will  stick  to  the  finish. 

At  the  other  end  Jed  Burns  commanded.  One  after 
another  he  tried  all  the  devices  he  had  known  to  succeed 
in  capping  or  checking  other  gushers.  The  flow  was*  so 
continuous  and  powerful  that  none  of  these  were  effec- 
tive. Some  wells  flow  in  jets.  They  hurl  out  oil,  die 
down  like  a  geyser,  and  presently  have  another  hemor- 
rhage. Jackpot  Number  Three  did  not  pulse  as  a  cut 
artery  does.  Its  output  was  steady  as  the  flow  of  water 
in  a  pipe.  The  heavy  timbers  with  which  he  tried  to 
stop  up  the  outlet  were  hurled  aside  like  straws.  He 
could  not  check  the  flow  long  enough  to  get  control. 

On  the  evening  of  the  tenth  day  Burns  put  in  the 
cork.  He  made  elaborate  preparations  in  advance  and 


168  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

assigned  his  force  to  the  posts  where  they  were  to  work. 
A  string  of  eight-inch  pipe  sixty  feet  long  was  slid  for- 
ward and  derricked  over  the  stream.  Above  this  a  large 
number  of  steel  rails,  borrowed  from  the  incoming  road, 
were  lashed  to  the  pipe  to  prevent  it  from  snapping. 
The  pipe  had  been  fitted  with  valves  of  various  sizes. 
After  it  had  been  fastened  to  the  well's  casing,  these 
were  gradually  reduced  to  check  the  flow  without  caus- 
ing a  blowout  in  the  pipe  line. 

Six  hours  later  a  metropolitan  newspaper  carried  the 
headline : 

BIG  GUSHER  HARNESSED ; 
AFTER  WILD  RAMPAGE 


Jackpot  No.  3  at  Malapi  Tamed 
Long  Battle  Ended 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
SHORTY 

IT  was  a  surprise  to  Dave  to  discover  that  the  horse 
Steve  had  got  for  him  was  his  own  old  favorite  Chiquito. 
The  pinto  knew  him.  He  tested  this  by  putting  him 
through  some  of  his  old  tricks.  The  horse  refused  to 
dance  or  play  dead,  but  at  the  word  of  command  his 
right  foreleg  came  up  to  shake  hands.  He  nuzzled  his 
silky  nose  against  the  coat  of  his  master  just  as  in  the 
days  of  old. 

Crawford  rode  a  bay,  larger  than  a  bronco.  The  oil 
prospector  was  astride  a  rangy  roan.  He  was  no  horse- 
man, but  as  a  perpetual-motion  conversationalist  the 
old  wildcatter  broke  records.  He  was  a  short  barrel  of  a 
man,  with  small  eyes  set  close  together,  and  he  made 
a  figure  of  fun  perched  high  up  in  the  saddle.  But  he 
permitted  no  difficulties  of  travel  to  interfere  with  his 
monologue. 

"The  boss  hold-up  wasn't  no  glad-hand  artist,"  he 
explained.  "He  was  a  sure-enough  sulky  devil,  though 
o'  course  we  could  n't  see  his  face  behind  the  mask. 
Blue  mask  it  was,  made  outa  a  bandanna  handkerchief. 
Well,  rightaway  I  knew  somethin'  was  liable  to  pop,  for 
old  Harrigan,  scared  to  death,  kep'  a-goin'  just  the 
same.  Maybe  he  had  n't  sense  enough  to  stop,  as  the 
fellow  says.  Maybe  he  did  n't  want  to.  Bang-bang!  I 
reckon  Tim  was  dead  before  he  hit  the  ground.  They 
lined  us  up,  but  they  did  n't  take  a  thing  except  the 


170  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

gold  and  one  Chicago  fellow's  watch.  Then  they  cut  the 
harness  and  p'int  for  the  hills." 

"How  do  you  know  they  made  for  the  hills?"  asked 
Dave. 

"Well,  they  naturally  would.  Anyhow,  they  lit  out 
round  the  Bend.  I  had  n't  lost  'em  none,  and  I  was  n't 
lookin'  to  see  where  they  went.  Not  in  this  year  of  our 
Lord.  I'm  right  careless  at  times,  but  not  enough  so  to 
make  inquiries  of  road  agents  when  they're  red  from 
killin'.  I  been  told  I  got  no  terminal  facilities  of  speech, 
but  it's  a  fact  I  did  n't  chirp  from  start  to  finish  of  the 
hold-up.  I  was  plumb  reticent." 

Light  sifted  into  the  sky.  The  riders  saw  the  colors 
change  in  a  desert  dawn.  The  hilltops  below  them  were 
veiled  in  a  silver-blue  mist.  *  Far  away  Malapi  rose  out 
of  the  caldron,  its  cheapness  for  once  touched  to  a 
moment  of  beauty  and  significance.  In  that  glorified 
sunrise  it  might  have  been  a  jeweled  city  of  dreams. 

The  prospector's  words  flowed  on.  Crystal  dawns 
might  come  and  go,  succeeding  mist  scarfs  of  rose  and 
lilac,  but  a  great  poet  has  said  that  speech  is  silver. 

"No,  sir.  When  a  man  has  got  the  drop  on  me  I  don't 
aim  to  argue  with  him.  Not  none.  Tim  Harrigan  had 
notions.  Different  here.  I've  done  some  rough-housin'. 
When  a  guy  puts  up  his  dukes  I  'm  there.  Onct  down  in 
Sonora  I  slammed  a  fellow  so  hard  he  woke  up  among 
strangers.  Fact.  I  don't  make  claims,  but  up  at  Car- 
bondale  they  say  I'm  some  rip-snorter  when  I  get  goin' 
good.  I'm  quiet.  I  don't  go  around  with  a  chip  on  my 
shoulder.  It's  the  quiet  boys  you  want  to  look  out  for. 
Am  I  right?" 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  171 

Crawford  gave  a  little  snort  of  laughter  and  covered 
it  hastily  with  a  cough. 

"You  know  it,"  went  on  the  quiet  man  who  was  a 
rip-snorter  when  he  got  going.  "In  regards  to  that,  I'll 
say  my  observation  is  that  when  you  meet  a  small  man 
with  a  steady  gray  eye  it  don't  do  a  bit  of  harm  to  spend 
a  lot  of  time  leavin'  him  alone.  He  may  be  good-na- 
tured, but  he  won't  stand  no  devilin',  take  it  from  me." 

The  small  man  with  the  gray  eye  eased  himself  in  the 
saddle  and  moistened  his  tongue  for  a  fresh  start.  "But 
I'm  not  one  o'  these  foolhardy  idiots  who  have  to  have 
wooden  suits  made  for  'em  because  they  don't  know 
when  to  stay  mum.  You  cattlemen  have  lived  a  quiet 
life  in  the  hills,  but  I ' ve  been  right  where  the  tough  ones 
crowd  for  years.  I  '11  tell  you  there 's  a  time  to  talk  and  J 
time  to  keep  still,  as  the  old  sayin'  is." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Crawford. 

"Another  thing.  I  got  an  instinct  that  tells  me  win 
folks  are  interested  in  what  I  say.    I've  seen  talkt 
that  went  right  on  borin'  people  and  never  caught 
They  'd  talk  yore  arm  off  without  gettin'  wise  to  it 
you'd  had  a-plenty.    That  kind  of  talker  ain't  fit 
nothin'  but  to  wrangle  Mary's  little  lamb  'way  off  L 
every  human  bein'." 

In  front  of  the  riders  a  group  of  cottonwoods  lif tt 
their  branches  at  a  sharp  bend  in  the  road.  Just  before 
they  reached  this  turn  a  bridge  crossed  a  dry  irrigating 
lateral. 

"After  Harrigan  had  been  shot  I  came  to  the  ditch 
for  some  water,  but  she  was  dry  as  a  whistle.  Ever  no- 
tice how  things  are  that  way?  A  fellow  wants  water; 


172  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

none  there.  It's  rainin'  rivers;  the  ditch  is  runnin' 
strong.  There 's  a  sermon  for  a  preacher/'  said  the  pros- 
pector. 

The  cattleman  nodded  to  Dave.  "I  noticed  she  was 
dry  when  I  crossed  higher  up  on  my  way  out.  But  she 
was  full  up  with  water  when  I  saw  her  after  I  had  been 
up  to  Dick  Grein's." 

"Funny,"  commented  Sanders.  "Nobody  would 
want  water  to  irrigate  at  this  season.  Who  turned  the 
water  in?  And  why?" 

"Beats  me,"  answered  Crawford.  "But  it  don't 
worry  me  any.  I've  got  troubles  of  my  own." 

They  reached  the  cotton  woods,  and  the  oil  prospector 
>ointed  out  to  them  just  where  the  stage  had  been  when 
he  bandits  first  appeared.  He  showed  them  the  bushes 

^m  behind  which  the  robbers  had  stepped,  the  place 

»cupied  by  the  passengers  after  they  had  been  lined  up, 

d  the  course  taken  by  the  hold-ups  after  the  robbery. 

The  road  ran  up  a  long,  slow  incline  to  the  Bend, 
'ch  was  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Beyond  it  the  wheel 
<:s  went  down  again  with  a  sharp  dip.  The  stage 
been  stopped  just  beyond  the  crest,  just  at  the  be- 
ing of  the  down  grade. 
The  coach  must  have  just  started  to  move  downhill 

len  the  robbers  jumped  out  from  the  bushes,"  sug- 
gested Dave. 

"Sure  enough.  That's  probably  howcome  Tim  to 
make  a  mistake.  He  figured  he  could  give  the  horses  the 
whip  and  make  a  getaway.  The  hold-up  saw  that.  He 
had  to  shoot  to  kill  or  lose  the  gold.  Bein'  as  he  was  a 
cold-blooded  killer  he  shot."  There  were  pinpoints  of 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  173 

light  in  Emerson  Crawford's  eyes.  He  knew  now  the 
kind  of  man  they  were  hunting.  He  was  an  assassin  of  a 
deadly  type,  not  a  wild  cowboy  who  had  fired  in  excite- 
ment because  his  nerves  had  betrayed  him. 

6 '  Yes.  Tim  knew  what  he  was  doing.  He  took  a  chance 
the  hold-ups  wouldn't  shoot  to  kill.  Most  of  'em  won't. 
That  was  his  mistake.  If  he'd  seen  the  face  behind  that 
mask  he  would  have  known  better,"  said  Dave. 

Crawford  quartered  over  the  ground.  "Just  like  I 
thought,  Dave.  Applegate  and  his  posse  have  been  here 
and  stomped  out  any  tracks  the  robbers  left.  No  way  of 
tellin'  which  of  all  these  footprints  belonged  to  them. 
Likely  none  of  'em.  If  I  did  n't  know  better  I'd  think 
some  one  had  been  givin'  a  dance  here,  the  way  the 
ground  is  cut  up." 

They  made  a  wide  circle  to  try  to  pick  up  the  trail 
wanted,  and  again  a  still  larger  one.  Both  of  these  at- 
tempts failed. 

"Looks  to  me  like  they  flew  away,"  the  cattleman 
said  at  last.  "Horses  have  got  hoofs  and  hoofs  make 
tracks.  I  see  plenty  of  these,  but  I  don't  find  any  place 
where  the  animals  waited  while  this  thing  was  bein' 
pulled  off." 

"The  sheriff's  posse  has  milled  over  the  whole  ground 
so  thoroughly  we  can't  be  sure.  But  there 's  a  point  in 
what  you  say.  Maybe  they  left  their  horses  farther  up 
the  hill  and  walked  back  to  them,"  Dave  hazarded. 

"No-o,  son.  This  job  was  planned  careful.  Now  the 
hold-ups  did  n't  know  whether  they'd  have  to  make  a 
quick  getaway  or  not.  They  would  have  their  horses 
handy,  but  out  of  sight." 


174  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Why  not  in  the  dry  ditch  back  of  the  cotton  woods?" 
asked  Dave  with  a  flash  of  light. 

Crawford  stared  at  him,  but  at  last  shook  his  head. 
"I  reckop  not.  In  the  sand  and  clay  there  the  hoofs 
would  show  too  plain." 

"What  if  the  hold-ups  knew  the  ditch  was  going  to  be 
filled  before  the  pursuit  got  started?" 

"You  mean—?" 

"I  mean  they  might  have  arranged  to  have  the  water 
turned  into  the  lateral  to  wipe  out  their  tracks." 

"I'll  be  dawged  if  you  ain't  on  a  warm  trail,  son," 
murmured  Crawford.  "And  if  they  knew  that,  why 
would  n't  they  ride  either  up  or  down  the  ditch  and 
leave  no  tracks  a-tall?" 

"They  would  —  for  a  way,  anyhow.  Up  or  down, 
which?" 

"Down,  so  as  to  reach  Malapi  and  get  into  the  Gusher 
before  word  came  of  the  hold-up,"  guessed  Crawford. 

"Up,  because  in  the  hills  there's  less  chance  of  being 
seen,"  differed  Dave.  "Crooks  like  them  can  fix  up  an 
alibi  when  they  need  one.  They  had  to  get  away  un- 
seen, in  a  hurry,  and  to  get  rid  of  the  gold  soon  in  case 
they  should  be  seen." 

"You've  rung  the  bell,  son.  Up  it  is.  It's  an  instinct 
of  an  outlaw  to  make  for  the  hills  where  he  can  hole  up 
when  in  trouble." 

The  prospector  had  been  out  of  the  conversation  long 
enough. 

"Depends  who  did  this,"  he  said.  "If  they  come 
from  the  town,  they  'd  want  to  get  back  there  in  a  hurry. 
If  not,  they'd  steer  clear  of  folks.  Onct,  when  I  was  in 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  175 

Oklahoma,  a  nigger  went  into  a  house  and  shot  a  white 
man  he  claimed  owed  him  money.  He  made  his  geta- 
way, looked  like,  and  the  whole  town  hunted  for  him  for 
futy  miles.  They  found  him  two  days  later  in  the  cellar 
of  the  man  he  had  killed." 

"Well,  you  can  go  look  in  Tim  Harrigan's  cellar  if 
you've  a  mind  to.  Dave  and  I  are  goin'  up  the  ditch," 
said  the  old  cattleman,  smiling. 

"I'll  tag  along,  seein'  as  I've  been  drug  in  this  far. 
All  I'll  say  is  that  when  we  get  to  the  bottom  of  this, 
we'll  find  it  was  done  by  fellows  you'd  never  suspect. 
I  know  human  nature.  My  guess  is  no  drunken  cow- 
boy pulled  this  off.  No,  sir.  I'd  look  higher  for  the 
men." 

"How  about  Parson  Brown  and  the  school  superin- 
tendent?" asked  Crawford. 

"You  can  laugh.  All  right.  Wait  and  see.  Somehow 
I  don't  make  mistakes.  I'm  lucky  that  way.  Use  my 
judgment,  I  reckon.  Anyhow,  I  always  guess  right  on 
presidential  elections  and  prize  fights.  You  got  to  know 
men,  in  my  line  of  business.  I  study  'em.  Hardly  ever 
peg  'em  wrong.  Fellow  said  to  me  one  day,  *  How's  it 
come,  Thomas,  you  most  always  call  the  turn?'  I  give 
him  an  answer  in  one  word  —  psycho-ology." 

The  trailers  scanned  closely  the  edge  of  the  irrigation 
ditch.  Here,  too,  they  failed  to  get  results.  There  were 
tracks  enough  close  to  the  lateral,  but  apparently  none 
of  them  led  down  into  the  bed  of  it.  The  outlaws  no 
doubt  had  carefully  obliterated  their  tracks  at  this  place 
in  order  to  give  no  starting-point  for  the  pursuit. 

"I'll  go  up  on  the  left-hand  side,  you  take  the  right, 


176  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave,"  said  Crawford.  "We've  got  to  find  where  they 
left  the  ditch." 

The  prospector  took  the  sandy  bed  of  the  dry  canal  as 
his  path.  He  chose  it  for  two  reasons.  There  was  less 
brush  to  obstruct  his  progress,  and  he  could  reach  the 
ears  of  both  his  auditors  better  as  he  burbled  his  com- 
ments on  affairs  in  general  and  the  wisdom  of  Mr. 
Thomas  in  particular. 

The  *ditch  was  climbing  into  the  hills,  zigzagging  up 
draws  in  order  to  find  the  most  even  grade.  The  three 
men  traveled  slowly,  for  Sanders  and  Crawford  had  to 
read  sign  on  every  foot  of  the  way. 

"Chances  are  they  didn't  leave  the  ditch  till  they 
heard  the  water  comin',"  the  cattleman  said.  "These 
fellows  knew  their  business,  and  they  were  playin'  safe." 

Dave  pulled  up.  He  went  down  on  his  knees  and 
studied  the  ground,  then  jumped  down  into  the  ditch 
and  examined  the  bank. 

"Here's  where  they  got  out,"  he  announced. 

Thomas  pressed  forward.  With  one  outstretched 
hand  the  young  man  held  him  back. 

"Just  a  minute.  I  want  Mr.  Crawford  to  see  this  be- 
fore it's  touched." 

The  old  cattleman  examined  the  side  of  the  canal. 
The  clay  showed  where  a  sharp  hoof  had  reached  for  a 
footing,  missed,  and  pawed  down  the  bank.  Higher  up 
was  the  faint  mark  of  a  shoe  on  the  loose  rubble  at  the 
edge. 

"Looks  like,"  he  assented. 

Study  of  the  ground  above  showed  the  trail  of  two 
horses  striking  off  at  a  right  angle  from  the  ditch  toward 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  177 

the  mouth  of  a  box  canon  about  a  mile  distant.  The 
horses  were  both  larger  than  broncos.  One  of  them  was 
shod.  One  of  the  front  shoes,  badly  worn,  was  broken 
and  part  of  it  gone  on  the  left  side.  The  riders  were  tak- 
ing no  pains  apparently  to  hide  their  course.  No  doubt 
they  relied  on  the  full  ditch  to  blot  out  pursuit. 

The  trail  led  through  the  canon,  over  a  divide  beyond., 
and  down  into  a  small  grassy  valley. 

At  the  summit  Crawford  gave  strict  orders.  "No 
talkin',  Mr.  Thomas.  This  is  serious  business  now. 
We're  in  enemy  country  and  have  got  to  soft-foot  it." 

The  foothills  were  bristling  with  chaparral.  Behind 
any  scrub  oak  or  cedar,  under  cover  of  an  aspen  thicket 
or  even  of  a  clump  of  gray  sage,  an  enemy  with  murder 
in  his  heart  might  be  lurking.  Here  an  ambush  was 
much  more  likely  than  in  the  sun-scorched  plain  they 
had  left. 

The  three  men  left  the  footpath  where  it  dipped  down 
into  the  park  and  followed  the  rim  to  the  left,  passing 
through  a  heavy  growth  of  manzanita  to  a  bare  hill 
dotted  with  scrubby  sage,  at  the  other  side  of  which  was 
a  small  gulch  of  aspens  straggling  down  into  the  valley. 
Back  of  these  a  log  cabin  squatted  on  the  slope.  One  had 
to  be  almost  upon  it  before  it  could  be  seen.  Its  back 
door  looked  down  upon  the  entrance  to  a  canon.  This 
was  fenced  across  to  make  a  corral. 

The  cattleman  and  the  cowpuncher  looked  at  each 
other  without  verbal  comment.  A  message  better  not 
put  into  words  flashed  from  one  to  the  other.  This 
looked  like  the  haunt  of  rustlers.  Here  they  could  pur- 
sue their  nefarious  calling  unmolested.  Not  once  a  year 


178  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

would  anybody  except  one  of  themselves  enter  this  val- 
ley, and  if  a  stranger  did  so  he  would  know  better  than 
to  push  his  way  into  the  canon. 

Horses  were  drowsing  sleepily  in  the  corral.  Dave 
slid  from  the  saddle  and  spoke  to  Crawford  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I'm  going  down  to  have  a  look  at  those  horses,'*  he 
said,  unfastening  his  rope  from  the  tientos. 

The  cattleman  nodded.  He  drew  from  its  case  be- 
neath his  leg  a  rifle  and  held  it  across  the  pommel.  It 
was  not  necessary  for  Sanders  to  ask,  nor  for  him  to 
promise,  protection  while  the  younger  man  was  making 
his  trip  of  inspection.  Both  were  men  who  knew  the 
frontier  code  and  each  other.  At  a  time  of  action  speech, 
beyond  the  curtest  of  monosyllables,  was  surplusage. 

Dave  walked  and  slid  down  the  rubble  of  the  steep 
hillside,  clambered  down  a  rough  face  of  rock,  and 
dropped  into  the  corral.  He  wore  a  revolver,  but  he  did 
not  draw  it.  He  did  not  want  to  give  anybody  in  the 
house  an  excuse  to  shoot  at  him  without  warning. 

His  glance  swept  over  the  horses,  searched  the  hoofs 
of  each.  It  found  one  shod,  a  rangy  roan  gelding. 

The  cowpuncher's  rope  whined  through  the  air  and 
settled  down  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  animal.  The 
gelding  went  sun-fishing  as  a  formal  protest  against  the 
lariat,  then  surrendered  tamely.  Dave  patted  it  gently, 
stroked  the  neck,  and  spoke  softly  reassuring  words. 
He  picked  up  one  of  the  front  feet  and  examined  the 
shoe.  This  was  badly  worn,  and  on  the  left  side  part  of 
it  had  broken  off. 

A  man  came  to  the  back  door  of  the  cabin  and 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  179 

stretched  in  a  long  and  luxuriant  yawn.  Carelessly  and 
casually  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  aspens  and  into  the 
corral.  For  a  moment  he  stood  frozen,  his  arms  still 
flung  wide. 

From  the  aspens  came  down  Crawford's  voice,  cool 
and  ironic.  "Much  obliged,  Shorty.  Leave  'em  right 
up  and  save  trouble." 

The  squat  cowpuncher's  eyes  moved  back  to  the 
aspens  and  found  there  the  owner  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R. 
"Wha'dya  want?"  he  growled  sullenly. 

"You  —  just  now.  Step  right  out  from  the  house, 
Shorty.  Tha's  right.  Anybody  else  in  the  house?" 

"No." 

"You'll  be  luckier  if  you  tell  the  truth." 

"I'm  tellin'  it." 

"Hope  so.  Dave,  step  forward  and  get  his  six- 
shooter.  Keep  him  between  you  and  the  house.  If  any- 
thing happens  to  you  I'm  goin'  to  kill  him  right  now." 

Shorty  shivered,  hardy  villain  though  he  was.  There 
had  been  nobody  in  the  house  when  he  left  it,  but  he 
had  been  expecting  some  one  shortly.  If  his  partner  ar- 
rived and  began  shooting,  he  knew  that  Crawford  would 
drop  him  in  his  tracks.  His  throat  went  dry  as  a  lime 
kiln.  He  wanted  to  shout  out  to  the  man  who  might  be 
inside  not  to  shoot  at  any  cost.  But  he  was  a  game 
and  loyal  ruffian.  He  would  not  spoil  his  confederate's 
chance  by  betraying  him.  If  he  said  nothing,  the  man 
might  come,  realize  the  situation,  and  slip  away  un- 
observed. 

Sanders  took  the  man's  gun  and  ran  his  hand  over  his 
thick  body  to  make  sure  he  had  no  concealed  weapon. 


180  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"I'm  going  to  back  away.  You  come  after  me,  step 
by  step,  so  close  I  could  touch  you  with  the  gun," 
ordered  Dave. 

The  man  followed  him  as  directed,  his  hands  still  in 
the  air.  His  captor  kept  him  in  a  line  between  him  and 
the  house  door.  Crawford  rode  down  to  join  them.  The 
man  who  claimed  not  to  be  foolhardy  stayed  up  in  the 
timber.  This  was  no  business  of  his.  He  did  not  want 
to  be  the  target  of  any  shots  from  the  cabin. 

The  cattleman  swung  down  from  the  saddle.  "Sure 
we  '11  'light  and  come  in,  Shorty.  No,  you  first.  I  'm  right 
at  yore  heels  with  this  gun  pokin'  into  yore  ribs.  Don't 
make  any  mistake.  You  'd  never  have  time  to  explain  it." 

The  cabin  had  only  one  room.  The  bunks  were  over 
at  one  side,  the  stove  and  table  at  the  other.  Two  six- 
pane  windows  flanked  the  front  door. 

The  room  was  empty,  except  for  the  three  men  now 
entering. 

"You  live  here,  Shorty?"  asked  Crawford  curtly. 

"Yes."   The  answer  was  sulky  and  reluctant. 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?"  snapped  the  cattleman. 

Shorty's  defiant  eyes  met  his.   "My  business." 

"Mine,  too,  I'll  bet  a  dollar.  If  you're  nestin'  in 
these  hills  you  cayn't  have  but  one  business." 

"Prove  it!   Prove  it!"  retorted  Shorty  angrily. 

"Some  day — not  now."  Crawford  turned  to  Sanders. 
"What  about  the  horse  you  looked  at,  Dave?" 

"Same  one  we've  been  trailing.  The  one  with  the 
broken  shoe." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  181 

"That  yore  horse,  Shorty?" 

"Maybeso.   Maybe  not." 

"You've  been  havin'  company  here  lately,"  Craw- 
ford went  on.  "Who's  yore  guest?" 

"  You  seem  to  be  right  now.  You  and  yore  friend  the 
convict,"  sneered  the  short  cowpuncher. 

"Don't  use  that  word  again,  Shorty,"  advised  the 
ranchman  in  a  voice  gently  ominous. 

"Why  not?  True,  ain't  it?  Doesn't  deny  it  none, 
does  he?" 

"We'll  not  discuss  that.  Where  were  you  yester- 
day?" 

"Here,  part  o'  the  day.  Where  was  you?"  demanded 
Shorty  impudently.  * '  Seems  to  me  I  heard  you  was  right 
busy." 

"What  part  of  the  day?  Begin,  at  the  beginnin'  and 
tell  us  what  you  did.  You  may  put  yore  hands  down." 

"Why,  I  got  up  in  the  mo'nin'  and  put  on  my  pants 
an'  my  boots,"  jeered  Shorty.  "I  don't  recolleck 
whether  I  put  on  my  hat  or  not.  Maybe  I  did.  I  cooked 
breakfast  and  et  it,  I  chawed  tobacco.  I  cooked  dinner 
and  et  it.  Smoked  and  chawed  some  more.  Cooked  sup- 
per and  et  it.  Went  to  bed." 

"That  all?" 

"Why,  no,  I  fed  the  critters  and  fixed  up  a  busted 
stirrup." 

"Who  was  with  you?" 

"I  was  plumb  lonesome  yesterday.  This  any  business 
of  yours,  by  the  way,  Em?" 

"Think  again,  Shorty.   Who  was  with  you?" 

The  heavy-set  cowpuncher  helped  himself  to  a  chew 


182  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

of  tobacco.  "I  told  you  onct  I  was  alone.  Ain't  seen 
anybody  but  you  for  a  week." 

"Then  how  did  you  hear  yesterday  was  my  busy 
day?"  Crawford  thrust  at  him. 

For  a  moment  Shorty  was  taken  aback.  Before  he 
could  answer  Dave  spoke. 

"Man  coming  up  from  the  creek." 

Crawford  took  crisp  command.  "Back  iti  that  corner, 
Shorty.  Dave,  you  stand  back,  too.  Cover  him  soon  as 
he  shows  up." 

Dave  nodded. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
MILLER  TALKS 

A  MAN  stood  in  the  doorway,  big,  fat,  swaggering.  In 
his  younger  days  his  deep  chest  and  broad  shoulders 
had  accompanied  great  strength.  But  fat  had  accumu- 
lated in  layers.  He  was  a  mountain  of  sagging  flesh. 
His  breath  came  in  wheezy  puffs. 

"Next  time  you  get  your  own  — " 

The  voice  faltered,  died  away.  The  protuberant  eyes, 
still  cold  and  fishy,  passed  fearfully  from  one  to  another 
of  those  in  the  room.  It  was  plain  that  the  bottom  had 
dropped  out  of  his  heart.  One  moment  he  had  straddled 
the  world  a  Colossus,  the  next  he  was  collapsing  like  a 
punctured  balloon. 

"Goddlemighty!"  he  gasped.  "Don't  shoot!  I  — I 
give  up." 

He  was  carrying  a  bucket  of  water.  It  dropped  from 
his  nerveless  fingers  and  spilt  over  the  floor. 

Like  a  bullet  out  of  a  gun  Crawford  shot  a  question  at 
him.  "Where  have  you  hidden  the  money  you  got  from 
the  stage?" 

The  loose  mouth  of  the  convict  opened.  "Why,  we  — 
I  —  we—  " 

"Keep  yore  trap  shut,  you  durn  fool,"  ordered 
Shorty. 

Crawford  jabbed  his  rifle  into  the  ribs  of  the  rustler. 
"Yours,  too,  Shorty." 

But  the  damage  had  been  done.   Miller's  flabby  will 


184  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

had  been  braced  by  a  stronger  one.  He  bad  been  given 
time  to  recover  from  his  dismay.  He  moistened  his  lips 
with  his  tongue  and  framed  his  lie. 

"I  was  gonna  say  you  must  be  mistaken,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford," he  whined. 

Shorty  laughed  hardily,  spat  tobacco  juice  at  a  knot 
in  the  floor,  and  spoke  again.  "Third  degree  stuff,  eh? 
It  won't  buy  you  a  thing,  Crawford.  Miller  was  n't  in 
that  hold-up  any  more'n  I  - 

"Let  Miller  do  his  own  talkin',  Shorty.  He  don't 
need  any  lead  from  you." 

Shorty  looked  hard  at  the  cattleman  with  unflinching 
eyes.  "Don't  get  on  the  peck,  Em.  You  got  no  business 
coverin'  me  with  that  gun.  I  know  you  got  reasons 
a-plenty  for  tryin'  to  bluff  us  into  sayin'  we  held  up  the 
stage.  But  we  don't  bluff  worth  a  cent.  See?" 

Crawford  saw.  He  had  failed  to  surprise  a  confession 
out  of  Miller  by  the  narrowest  of  margins.  If  he  had  had 
time  to  get  Shorty  out  of  the  room  before  the  convict's 
appearance,  the  fellow  would  have  come  through.  As  it 
was,  he  had  missed  his  opportunity. 

A  head  followed  by  a  round  barrel  body  came  in  cau- 
tiously from  the  lean-to  at  the  rear. 

"Everything  all  right,  Mr.  Crawford?  Thought  I'd 
drap  on  down  to  see  if  you  did  n't  need  any  help." 

"None,  thanks,  Mr.  Thomas,"  the  cattleman  an- 
swered dryly. 

"Well,  you  never  can  tell."  The  prospector  nodded 
genially  to  Shorty,  then  spoke  again  to  the  man  with  the 
rifle.  "Found  any  clue  to  the  hold-up  yet?" 

"We've  found  the  men  who  did  it,"  replied  Crawford. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  185 

"Knew  'em  all  the  time,  I  reckon,"  scoffed  Shorty 
with  a  harsh  laugh. 

Dave  drew  his  chief  aside,  still  keeping  a  vigilant  eye 
on  the  prisoners.  "We've  got  to  play  our  hand  differ- 
ent. Shorty  is  game.  He  can't  be  bluffed.  But  Miller 
can.  I  found  out  years  ago  he  squeals  at  physical  pain. 
We'll  start  for  home.  After  a  while  we'll  give  Shorty  a 
chance  to  make  a  getaway.  Then  we  '11  turn  the  screws 
on  Miller." 

"All  right,  Dave.  You  run  it.  I'll  back  yore  play," 
his  friend  said. 

They  disarmed  Miller,  made  him  saddle  two  of  the 
horses  in  the  corral,  and  took  the  back  trail  across 
the  valley  to  the  divide.  It  was  here  they  gave  Shorty 
his  chance  of  escape.  Miller  was  leading  the  way  up  the 
trail,  with  Crawford,  Thomas,  Shorty,  and  Dave  in 
the  order  named.  Dave  rode  forward  to  confer  with  the 
owner  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R.  For  three  seconds  his  back 
was  turned  to  the  squat  cowpuncher. 

Shorty  whirled  his  horse  and  flung  it  wildly  down  the 
precipitous  slope.  Sanders  galloped  after  him,  fired  his 
revolver  three  times,  and  after  a  short  chase  gave  up  the 
pursuit.  He  rode  back  to  the  party  on  the  summit. 

Crawford  glanced  around  at  the  heavy  chaparral. 
"How  about  off  here  a  bit,  Dave?" 

The  younger  man  agreed.  He  turned  to  Miller. 
"We're  going  to  hang  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  pasty  color  of  the  fat  man  ebbed  till  his  face 
seemed  entirely  bloodless.  "My  God!  You  wouldn't 
do  that!"  he  moaned. 

He  clung  feebly  to  the  horn  of  his  saddle  as  Sanders 


186  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

led  the  horse  into  the  brush.  He  whimpered,  snuffling 
an  appeal  for  mercy  repeated  over  and  over.  The  party 
had  not  left  the  road  a  hundred  yards  behind  when  a 
man  jogged  past  on  his  way  into  the  valley.  He  did  not 
see  them,  nor  did  they  see  him. 

Underneath  a  rather  scrubby  cedar  Dave  drew  up. 
He  glanced  it  over  critically.  "Think  it  '11  do? "  he  asked 
Crawford  in  a  voice  the  prisoner  could  just  hear. 

"Yep.  That  big  limb '11  hold  him,"  the  old  cattleman 
answered  in  the  same  low  voice.  "Better  let  him  stay 
right  on  the  horse,  then  we'll  lead  it  out  from  under 
him." 

Miller  pleaded  for  his  life  abjectly.  His  blood  had 
turned  to  water.  "Honest,  I  didn't  shoot  Harrigan. 
Why,  I'm  that  tender-hearted  I  would  n't  hurt  a  kitten. 
I  —  I  —  Oh,  don't  do  that,  for  God's  sake." 

Thomas  was  almost  as  white  as  the  outlaw.  "You 
don't  aim  to  —  you  would  n't  — " 

Crawford's  face  was  as  cold  and  as  hard  as  steel. 
"Why  not?  He's  a  murderer.  He  tried  to  gun  Dave 
here  when  the  boy  didn't  have  a  six-shooter.  We'll  jes' 
get  rid  of  him  now."  He  threw  a  rope  over  the  convict's 
head  and  adjusted  it  to  the  folds  of  his  fat  throat. 

The  man  under  condemnation  could  hardly  speak. 
His  throat  was  dry  as  the  desert  dust  below.  "I  — 
I  done  Mr.  Sanders  a  meanness.  I  'm  sorry.  I  was 
drunk." 

"You  lied  about  him  and  sent  him  to  the  penitenti- 
ary." 

"I'll  fix  that.   Lemme  go  an'  I'll  make  that  right." 

"How  will  you  make  it  right?"   asked   Crawford 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  187 

grimly,  and  the  weight  of  his  arm  drew  the  rope  so  tight 
that  Miller  winced.  "Can  you  give  him  back  the  years 
he's  lost?" 

"No,,  sir,  no,"  the  man  whispered  eagerly.  "But  I 
can  tell  how  it  was  —  that  we  fired  first  at  him.  Doble 
did  that,  an'  then  —  accidental  —  I  killed  Doble  whilst 
I  was  shootin'  at  Mr.  Sanders." 

Dave  strode  forward,  his  eyes  like  great  live  coals. 
"What?  Say  that  again !"  he  cried. 

"Yessir.  I  did  it  —  accidental  —  when  Doble  run 
forward  in  front  of  me.  Tha's  right.  I  'm  plumb  sorry  I 
did  n't  tell  the  cou't  so  when  you  was  on  trial,  Mr. 
Sanders.  I  reckon  I  was  scairt  to." 

"Will  you  tell  this  of  yore  own  free  will  to  the  sheriff 
iown  at  Malapi?"  asked  Crawford. 

"I  sure  will.  Yessir,  Mr.  Crawford."  The  man's  ter- 
ror had  swept  away  all  thought  of  anything  but  the 
present  peril.  His  color  was  a  seasick  green.  His  great 
body  trembled  like  a  jelly  shaken  from  a  mould. 

"It's  too  late  now,"  cut  in  Dave  savagely.  "We 
same  up  about  this  stage  robbery.  Unless  he'll  clear 
that  up,  I  vote  to  finish  the  job." 

"Maybe  we'd  better,"  agreed  the  cattleman.  "I'll 
tie  the  rope  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree  and  you  lead  the 
tiorse  from  under  him,  Dave." 

Miller  broke  down.  He  groveled.  "I'll  tell.  I'll  tell 
ill  I  know.  Dug  Doble  and  Shorty  held  up  the  stage.  I 
ion'  know  who  killed  the  driver.  They  didn't  say 
when  they  come  back." 

"  You  let  the  water  into  the  ditch,"  suggested  Craw- 
ford. 


188  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Yessir.  I  did  that.  They  was  shelterin'  me  and  o' 
course  I  had  to  do  like  they  said." 

''When  did  you  escape?" 

"On  the  way  back  to  the  penitentiary.  A  fellow  give 
the  deputy  sheriff  a  drink  on  the  train.  It  was  doped. 
We  had  that  fixed.  The  keys  to  the  handcuffs  was  in  the 
deputy's  pocket.  When  he  went  to  sleep  we  unlocked 
the  cuffs  and  I  got  off  at  the  next  depot.  Horses  was 
waitin'  there  for  us." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  us?  Who  was  with  you?" 

"I  don'  know  who  he  was.  Fellow  said  Brad  Steel- 
man  sent  him  to  fix  things  up  for  me." 

Thomas  borrowed  the  field-glasses  of  Crawford. 
Presently  he  lowered  them.  "Two  fellows  comin'  hell- 
for-leather  across  the  valley,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  ex- 
pressed his  fears. 

The  cattleman  took  the  glasses  and  looked.  "Shorty's 
found  a  friend.  Dug  Doble  likely.  They're  carryin'  rifles. 
We'll  have  trouble.  They'll  see  we  stopped  at  the  haid 
of  the  pass,"  he  said  quietly. 

Much  shaken  already,  the  oil  prospector  collapsed  at 
the  prospect  before  him.  He  was  a  man  of  peace  and 
always  had  been,  in  spite  of  the  valiant  promise  of  his 
tongue. 

"None  of  my  funeral,"  he  said,  his  lips  white.  "I'm 
hittin'  the  trail  for  Malapi  right  now." 

He  wheeled  his  horse  and  jumped  it  to  a  gallop.  The 
roan  plunged  through  the  chaparral  and  soon  was  out  of 
sight. 

"We'll  fix  Mr.  Miller  so  he  won't  make  us  any  trouble 
during  the  rookus,"  Crawford  told  Dave. 


\ 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  189 

He  threw  the  coiled  rope  over  the  heaviest  branch  of 
the  cedar,  drew  it  tight,  and  fastened  it  to  the  trunk 
of  the  tree. 

"Now  you'll  stay  hitched,"  he  went  on,  speaking 
to  their  prisoner.  "And  you'd  better  hold  that  horse 
mighty  steady,  because  if  he  jumps  from  under  you  it  '11 
be  good-bye  for  one  scalawag." 

"If  you'd  let  me  down  I'd  do  like  you  told  me,  Mr. 
Crawford,"  pleaded  Miller.  "It's  right  oncomfortable 
here." 

"Keep  still.  Don't  say  a  word.  Yore  friends  are  get- 
tin'  close.  Let  a  chirp  outa  you,  and  you'll  never  have 
time  to  be  sorry,"  warned  the  cattleman. 

The  two  men  tied  their  horses  behind  some  heavy 
mesquite  and  chose  their  own  cover.  Here  they 
crouched  down  and  waited. 

They  could  hear  the  horses  of  the  outlaws  climbing 
the  hill  out  of  the  valley  to  the  pass.  Then,  down  in  the 
canon,  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  Thomas  in  wild  flight. 
The  bandits  stopped  at  the  divide. 

"They'll  be  headin'  this  way  in  a  minute,"  Crawford 
whispered. 

His  companion  nodded  agreement. 

They  were  wrong.  There  came  the  sound  of  a  whoop, 
a  sudden  clatter  of  hoofs,  the  diminishing  beat  of  horses' 
feet. 

"They've  seen  Thomas,  and  they're  after  him  on  the 
jump,"  suggested  Dave. 

His  friend's  -eyes  crinkled  to  a  smile.  "Sure  enough. 
They  figure  he's  the  tail  end  of  our  party.  Well,  I'll  bet 
Thomas  gives  'em  a  good  run  for  their  money.  He's 


190  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

right  careless  sometimes,  but  lie's  no  foolhardy  idiot 
and  he  don't  aim  to  argue  with  birds  like  these  even 
though  he's  a  rip-snorter  when  he  gets  goin'  good  and 
won't  stand  any  devilin'." 

"He'll  talk  them  to  death  if  they  catch  him/'  Dave 
answered. 

"Back  to  business.   What's  our  next  move,  son?" 

"Some  more  conversation  with  Miller.  Probably  he 
can  tell  us  where  the  gold  is  hidden." 

"Whoopee!  I'll  bet  he  can.  You  do  the  talkin'.  I  've 
a  notion  he's  more  scared  of  you." 

The  fat  convict  tried  to  make  a  stand  against  them. 
He  pleaded  ignorance.  "I  don'  know  where  they  hid  the 
stuff.  They  did  n't  tell  me." 

"Sounds  reasonable,  and  you  in  with  them  on  the 
deal,"  said  Sanders.  "Well,  you're  in  hard  luck.  We 
don't  give  two  hoots  for  you,  anyhow,  but  we  decided  to 
take  you  in  to  town  with  us  if  you  came  through  clean. 
If  not  — "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced  up  at 
the  branch  above. 

Miller  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat.  "You  would 
n't  treat  me  thataway,  Mr.  Sanders.  I'm  gittin'  to 
be  an  old  man  now.  I  done  wrong,  but  I  'm  sure  right 
sorry,"  he  whimpered. 

The  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  spent  years  in  prison  at 
Canon  City  were  hard  as  jade.  The  fat  man  read  a  day 
of  judgment  in  his  stern  and  somber  face. 

"I'll  tell!"  The  crook  broke  down,  clammy  beads  of 
perspiration  all  over  his  pallid  face.  "I'll  tell  you  right 
where  it's  at.  In  the  lean-to  of  the  shack.  Southwest 
corner.  Buried  in  a  gunny  sack." 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  191 

They  rode  back  across  the  valley  to  the  cabin.  Miller 
pointed  out  the  spot  where  the  stolen  treasure  was 
cached.  With  an  old  axe  as  a  spade  Dave  dug  away  the 
dirt  till  he  came  to  a  bit  of  sacking.  Crawford  scooped 
out  the  loose  earth  with  his  gauntlet  and  dragged  out  a 
gunnysack.  Inside  it  were  a  number  of  canvas  bags 
showing  the  broken  wax  seals  of  the  express  company. 
These  contained  gold  pieces  apparently  fresh  from  the 
mint. 

A  hurried  sum  in  arithmetic  showed  that  approxi- 
mately all  the  gold  taken  from  the  stage  must  be  here. 
Dave  packed  it  on  the  back  of  his  saddle  while  Crawford 
penciled  a  note  to  leave  in  the  cache  in  place  of  the 
money. 

The  note  said: 

This  is  no  safe  place  to  leave  seventeen  thousand  dollars, 
Dug.  I  'm  taking  it  to  town  to  put  in  the  bank.  If  you  want 
to  make  inquiries  about  it,  come  in  and  we  '11  talk  it  over,  you 
and  me  and  Applegate. 

EMERSON  CRAWFORD 

Five  minutes  later  the  three  men  were  once  more  rid- 
ing rapidly  across  the  valley  toward  the  summit  of  the 
divide.  The  loop  of  Crawford's  lariat  still  encircled  the 
gross  neck  of  the  convict. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DAVE  ACCEPTS  AN  INVITATION 

CRAWFORD  and  Dave,  with  their  prisoner,  lay  out  in  the 
chaparral  for  an  hour,  then  made  their  way  back  to  Mal- 
api  by  a  wide  circuit.  They  did  not  want  to  meet  Shorty 
and  Doble,  for  that  would  result  in  a  pitched  battle. 
They  preferred  rather  to  make  a  report  to  the  sheriff 
and  let  him  attempt  the  arrest  of  the  bandits. 

Reluctantly,  under  the  pressure  of  much  prodding, 
Miller  repeated  his  story  to  Sheriff  Applegate.  Under 
the  circumstances  he  was  not  sorry  that  he  was  to  be 
returned  to  the  penitentiary,  for  he  recognized  that  his 
life  at  large  would  not  be  safe  so  long  as  Shorty  and  Do- 
ble were  ranging  the  hills.  Both  of  them  were  "bad 
men,"  in  the  usual  Western  acceptance  of  the  term,  and 
an  accomplice  who  betrayed  them  would  meet  short 
shrift  at  their  hands. 

The  sheriff  gave  Crawford  a  receipt  for  the  gold  after 
they  had  counted  it  and  found  none  missing. 

The  old  cattleman  rose  from  the  table  and  reached  for 
his  hat. 

"Come  on,  son,"  he  said  to  Dave.  "I'll  say  we've 
done  a  good  day's  work.  Both  of  us  were  under  a  cloud. 
Now  we're  clear.  We're  goin'  up  to  the  house  to  have 
some  supper.  Applegate,  you'll  get  both  of  the  confes- 
sions of  Miller  fixed  up,  won't  you?  I'll  want  the  one 
about  George  Doble's  death  to  take  with  me  to  the 
Governor  of  Colorado.  I  'm  takin'  the  train  to-morrow." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  193 

"I'll  have  the  district  attorney  fix  up  the  papers," 
the  sheriff  promised. 

Emerson  Crawford  hooked  an  arm  under  the  elbow  of 
Sanders  and  left  the  office. 

"I'm  wonderin'  about  one  thing,  boy,"  he  said. 
"Did  Miller  kill  George  Doble  accidentally  or  on  pur- 
pose?" 

"I'm  wondering  about  that  myself.  You  remember 
that  Denver  bartender  said  they  had  been  quarreling  a 
good  deal.  They  were  having  a  row  at  the  very  time 
when  I  met  them  at  the  gate  of  the  corral.  It's  a  ten-to- 
one  shot  that  Miller  took  the  chance  to  plug  Doble  and 
make  me  pay  for  it." 

"Looks  likely,  but  we '11  never  know.  Son,  you 've  had 
a  rotten  deal  handed  you." 

The  younger  man's  eyes  were  hard  as  steel.  He 
clamped  his  jaw  tight,  but  he  made  no  comment. 

"Nobody  can  give  you  back  the  years  of  yore  life 
you've  lost,"  the  cattleman  went  on.  "But  we'll  get 
yore  record  straightened  out,  anyhow,  so  that  won't 
stand  against  you.  I  know  one  KT  girl  will  be  tickled  to 
hear  the  news.  Joy  always  has  stuck  out  that  you  were 
treated  shameful." 

"I  reckon  I'll  not  go  up  to  your  house  to-night," 
Dave  said  in  a  carefully  modulated  voice.  "I'm  dirty 
and  unshaven,  and  anyhow  I'd  rather  not  go  to-night." 

Crawford  refused  to  accept  this  excuse.  "No,  sir. 
You're  comin'  with  me,  by  gum!  I  got  soap  and  water 
and  a  razor  up  at  the  house,  if  that's  what's  troublin' 
you.  We  've  had  a  big  day  and  I  'm  goin'  to  celebrate  by 
talkin'  it  all  over  again.  Dad  gum  my  hide,  think  of  it» 


194  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

you  solemn-faced  old  owl!  This  time  last  night  I  was 
'most  a  pauper  and  you  sure  were.  Both  of  us  were  un- 
der the  charge  of  havin'  killed  a  man  each.  To-night 
we're  rich  as  that  fellow  Crocus;  anyhow  I  am,  an' 
you're  haided  that  way.  And  both  of  us  have  cleared 
our  names  to  boot.  Ain't  you  got  any  red  blood  in  that 
big  body  of  yore's?" 

"I'll  drop  in  to  the  Delmonico  and  get  a  bite,  then 
ride  out  to  the  Jackpot." 

"You  will  not!"  protested  the  cattleman.  "Looky 
here,  Dave.  It's  a  showdown.  Have  you  got  anything 
against  me?" 

Dave  met  him  eye  to  eye.  "Not  a  thing,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford. No  man  ever  had  a  better  friend." 

"Anything  against  Joyce?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Don't  hate  my  boy  Keith,  do  you?" 

"How  could  I?" 

"Then  what  in  hell  ails  you?  You're  not  parlor-shy, 
are  you?  Say  the  word,  and  we'll  eat  in  the  kitchen," 
grinned  Crawford. 

"I'm  not  a  society  man,"  said  Sanders  lamely. 

He  could  not  explain  that  the  shadow  of  the  prison 
walls  was  a  barrier  he  could  not  cross;  that  they  rose  to 
bar  him  from  all  the  joy  and  happiness  of  young  life. 

"Who  in  Mexico's  talkin'  about  society?  I  said  come 
up  and  eat  supper  with  me  and  Joy  and  Keith.  If  you 
don't  come,  I'm  goin'  to  be  good  and  sore.  I'll  not 
stand  for  it,  you  darned  old  killjoy." 

"I'll  go,"  answered  the  invited  man. 

He  went,  not  because  he  wanted  to  go,  but  because 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  195 

he  could  not  escape  without  being  an  ungracious 
boor. 

Joyce  flew  to  meet  her  father,  eyes  eager,  hands  swift 
to  caress  his  rough  face  and  wrinkled  coat.  She  bubbled 
with  joy  at  his  return,  and  when  he  told  her  that  his 
news  was  of  the  best  the  long  lashes  of  the  brown  eyes 
misted  with  tears.  The  young  man  in  the  background 
was  struck  anew  by  the  matronly  tenderness  of  her  rela- 
tion to  her  father.  She  hovered  about  him  as  a  mother 
does  about  her  son  returned  from  the  wars. 

"I've  brought  company  for  supper,  honey,"  Emerson 
told  her. 

She  gave  Dave  her  hand,  flushed  and  smiling.  "I've 
been  so  worried,"  she  explained.  "It's  fine  to  know  the 
news  is  good.  I'll  want  to  hear  it  all." 

"We've  got  the  stolen  money  back,  Joy,"  exploded 
her  father.  "We  know  who  took  it  —  Dug  Doble  and 
that  cowboy  Shorty  and  Miller." 

"But  I  thought  Miller- 

"He  escaped.  We  caught  him  and  brought  him  back 
to  town  with  us."  Crawford  seized  the  girl  by  the 
shoulders.  He  was  as  keen  as  a  boy  to  share  his  pleas- 
ure. "And  Joy  —  better  news  yet.  Miller  confessed  he 
killed  George  Doble.  Dave  did  n't  do  it  at  all." 

Joyce  came  to  the  young  man  impulsively,  hand  out- 
stretched. She  was  glowing  with  delight,  eyes  kind  and 
warm  and  glad.  "That's  the  best  yet.  Oh,  Mr.  San- 
ders, isn't  it  good?" 

His  impassive  face  gave  no  betrayal  of  any  happiness 
he  might  feel  in  his  vindication.  Indeed,  something  al- 
most sardonic  in  its  expression  chilled  her  enthusiasm. 


196  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

More  than  the  passing  of  years  separated  them  from  the 
days  when  he  had  shyly  but  gayly  wiped  dishes  for  her 
in  the  kitchen,  when  he  had  worshiped  her  with  a  boy's 
uncritical  adoration. 

Sanders  knew  it  better  than  she,  and  cursed  the  habit 
of  repression  that  had  become  a  part  of  him  in  his  prison 
days.  He  wanted  to  give  her  happy  smile  for  smile. 
But  he  could  not  do  it.  All  that  was  young  and  ardent 
and  eager  in  him  was  dead.  He  could  not  let  himself  go. 
Even  when  emotions  flooded  his  heart,  no  evidence  of  it 
reached  his  chill  eyes  and  set  face. 

After  he  had  come  back  from  shaving,  he  watched  her 
flit  about  the  room  while  she  set  the  table.  She  was  the 
competent  young  mistress  of  the  house.  With  grave 
young  authority  she  moved,  slenderly  graceful.  He 
knew  her  mind  was  with  the  cook  in  the  kitchen,  but  she 
found  time  to  order  Keith  crisply  to  wash  his  face  and 
hands,  time  to  gather  flowers  for  the  center  of  the  table 
from  the  front  yard  and  to  keep  up  a  running  fire  of  talk 
with  him  and  her  father.  More  of  the  woman  than  in  the 
days  when  he  had  known  her,  perhaps  less  of  the  care- 
free maiden,  she  was  essentially  unchanged,  was  what 
he  might  confidently  have  expected  her  to  be.  Emerson 
Crawford  was  the  same  bluff,  hearty  Westerner,  a  friend 
to  tie  to  in  sunshine  and  in  storm.  Even  little  Keith, 
just  escaping  from  his  baby  ways,  had  the  same  tricks 
and  mannerisms.  Nothing  was  different  except  himself. 
He  had  become  arid  and  hard  and  bitter,  he  told  himself 
regretfully. 

Keith  was  his  slave,  a  faithful  admirer  whose  eyes  fed 
upon  his  hero  steadily.  He  had  heard  the  story  of  this 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  197 

young  man's  deeds  discussed  until  Dave  had  come  to 
take  on  almost  mythical  proportions. 

He  asked  a  question  in  an  awed  voice.  "How  did  you 
get  this  Miller  to  confess?" 

The  guest  exchanged  a  glance  with  the  host.  "We 
had  a  talk  with  him." 

"Did  you—?" 

"Oh,  no!  We  just  asked  him  if  he  did  n't  want  to  tell 
us  all  about  it,  and  it  seems  he  did." 

"Maybe  you  touched  his  better  feelin's,"  suggested 
Keith,  with  memories  of  an  hour  in  Sunday  School 
when  his  teacher  had  made  a  vain  appeal  to  his. 

His  father  laughed.  "Maybe  we  did.  I  noticed  he 
was  near  blubberin'.  I  expect  it's  'Adios,  Sefior  Miller/ 
He's  got  two  years  more  to  serve,  and  after  that  he'll 
have  another  nice  long  term  to  serve  for  robbin'  the 
stage.  All  I  wish  is  we'd  done  the  job  more  thorough 
and  sent  some  friends  of  his  along  with  him.  Well,  that 's 
up  to  Applegate." 

"I'm  glad  it  is,"  said  Joyce  emphatically. 

"Any  news  to-day  from  Jackpot  Number  Three?" 
asked  the  president  of  that  company. 

"Bob  Hart  sent  in  to  get  some  supplies  and  had  a  note 
left  for  me  at  the  post-office,"  Miss  Joyce  mentioned, 
a  trifle  annoyed  at  herself  because  a  blush  insisted  on 
flowing  into  her  cheeks.  "He  says  it's  the  biggest  thing 
he  ever  saw,  but  it 's  going  to  be  awf 'ly  hard  to  control. 
Where  is  that  note?  I  must  have  put  it  somewhere." 

Emerson's  eyes  flickered  mischief.  "Oh,  well,  never 
mind  about  the  note.  That's  private  property,  I 
reckon." 


198  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"I'm  sure  if  I  can  find  it  — " 

"I'll  bet  my  boots  you  cayn't,  though,"  he  teased. 

"Dad!  What  will  Mr.  Sanders  think?  You  know 
that 's  nonsense.  Bob  wrote  because  I  asked  him  to  let 
me  know." 

"Sure.  Why  would  n't  the  secretary  and  field  super- 
intendent of  the  Jackpot  Company  keep  the  daughter 
of  the  president  informed?  I'll  have  it  read  into  the 
minutes  of  our  next  board  meetin'  that  it 's  in  his  duties 
to  keep  you  posted." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  want  to  talk  foolishness,"  she 
pouted. 

"There's  somethin'  else  I'm  goin'  to  have  put  into 
the  minutes  of  the  next  meetin',  Dave,"  Crawford 
went  on.  "And  that's  yore  election  as  treasurer  of  the 
company.  I  want  officers  around  me  that  I  can  trust, 
son." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  finance  or  about  book- 
keeping," Dave  said. 

"You'll  learn.  We'll  have  a  bookkeeper,  of  course.  I 
want  some  one  for  treasurer  that's  level-haided  and 
knows  how  to  make  a  quick  turn  when  he  has  to,  some 
one  that  uses  the  gray  stuff  in  his  cocoanut.  We'll  fix  a 
salary  when  we  get  goin'.  You  and  Bob  are  goin5  to 
have  the  active  management  of  this  concern.  Cattle's 
my  line,  an'  I  aim  to  stick  to  it.  Him  and  you  can  talk  it 
over  and  fix  yore  duties  so's  they  won't  conflict.  Burns, 
of  course,  will  run  the  actual  drillin'.  He's  an  Al  man. 
Don't  let  him  go." 

Dave  was  profoundly  touched,  No  man  could  be 
kinder  to  his  own  son,  could  show  more  confidence  in 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  199 

him,  than  Emerson  Crawford  was  to  one  who  had  no 
claims  upon  him. 

He  murmured  a  dry  "Thank  you";  then,  feeling  this 
to  be  inadequate,  added,  "I'll  try  to  see  you  don't  re- 
gret this." 

The  cattleman  was  a  shrewd  judge  of  men.  His  action 
now  wTas  not  based  solely  upon  humanitarian  motives. 
Here  was  a  keen  man,  quick-witted,  steady,  and  wrholly 
to  be  trusted,  one  certain  to  push  himself  to  the  front. 
It  was  good  business  to  make  it  worth  his  while  to  stick 
to  Crawford's  enterprises.  He  said  as  much  to  Dave 
bluntly. 

"And  you  ain't  in  for  any  easy  time  either,"  he  added. 
46 We've  got  oil.  We're  flooded  with  it,  so  I  hear.  Seve- 
re-al  thousand  dollars'  worth  a  day  is  runnin'  off  and 
seepin'  into  the  desert.  Bob  Hart  and  Jed  Burns  have 
got  the  job  of  puttin'  the  lid  on  the  pot,  but  when  they 
do  that  you've  got  a  bigger  job.  Looks  bigger  to  me, 
anyhow.  You've  got  to  get  rid  of  that  oil  —  find  a  mar- 
ket for  it,  sell  it,  ship  it  away  to  make  room  for  more. 
Get  busy,  son."  Crawford  waved  his  hand  after  the 
manner  of  one  who  has  shifted  a  responsibility  and  does 
not  expect  to  worry  about  it.  "Moreover  an'  likewise, 
we're  shy  of  money  to  keep  operatin'  until  we  can  sell 
the  stuff.  You'll  have  to  raise  scads  of  mazuma,  son. 
In  this  oil  game  dollars  sure  have  got  wings.  No  matter 
how  tight  yore  pockets  are  buttoned,  they  fly  right 
out." 

"I  doubt  whether  you've  chosen  the  right  man,"  the 
ex-cowpuncher  said,  smiling  faintly.  "The  most  I  ever 
borrowed  in  my  life  was  twenty-five  dollars." 


200  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"You  borrow  twenty-five  thousand  the  same  way, 
only  it's  easier  if  the  luck's  breakin'  right,"  the  cattle- 
man assured  him  cheerfully.  "The  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  hold  of  is  money  —  when  you ' ve  already 
got  lots  of  it." 

"The  trouble  is  we  have  n't." 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  learn  to  look  like  you  knew 
where  it  grew  on  bushes,"  Emerson  told  him,  grinning. 

"I  can  see  you've  chosen  me  for  a  nice  lazy  job." 

"Anything  but  that,  son.  You  don't  want  to  make 
any  mistake  about  this  thing.  Brad  Steelman  's  goin'  to 
fight  like  a  son-of-a-gun.  He'll  strike  at  our  credit  and 
at  our  market  and  at  our  means  of  transportation.  He  '11 
fight  twenty-four  hours  of  the  day,  and  he 's  the  slick- 
est, crookedest  gray  wolf  that  ever  skulked  over  the 
range." 

The  foreman  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  came  in  after  sup- 
per for  a  conference  with  his  boss.  He  and  Crawford  got 
their  heads  together  in  the  sitting-room  and  the  young 
people  gravitated  out  to  the  porch.  Joyce  pressed  Dave 
into  service  to  help  her  water  the  roses,  and  Keith  hung 
around  in  order  to  be  near  Dave.  Occasionally  he  asked 
questions  irrelevant  to  the  conversation.  These  were 
embarrassing  or  not  as  it  happened. 

Joyce  delivered  a  little  lecture  on  the  culture  of  roses, 
not  because  she  considered  herself  an  authority,  but  be- 
cause her  guest's  conversation  was  mostly  of  the  mono- 
syllabic order.  He  was  not  awkward  or  self-conscious; 
rather  a  man  given  to  silence. 

"Say,  Mr.  Sanders,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  wounded?" 
Keith  blurted  out. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  201 

"You  mustn't  ask  personal  questions,  Keith,"  his 
sister  told  him. 

"Oh!  Well,  I  already  ast  this  one?"  the  boy  sug- 
gested ingenuously. 

"Don't  know,  Keith,"  answered  the  young  man.  "I 
never  was  really  wounded.  If  you  mean  this  scratch  in 
the  shoulder,  I  hardly  felt  it  at  all  till  afterward." 

"Golly!  I'll  bet  I  would  n't  tackle  a  feller  shootin'  at 
me  the  way  that  Miller  was  at  you,"  the  youngster 
commented  in  naive  admiration. 

"  Bedtime f  or  liT  boys,  Keith,"  his  sister  reminded  him. 

"Oh,  lemme  stay  up  a  while  longer,"  he  begged. 

Joyce  was  firm.  She  had  schooled  her  impulses  to  re- 
sist the  little  fellow's  blandishments,  but  Dave  noticed 
that  she  was  affectionate  even  in  her  refusal. 

"I'll  come  up  and  say  good-night  after  a  while, 
Keithie,"  she  promised  as  she  kissed  him. 

To  the  gaunt-faced  man  watching  them  she  was  the 
symbol  of  all  most  to  be  desired  in  woman.  She  embod- 
ied youth,  health,  charm.  She  was  life's  springtime,  its 
promise  of  fulfillment;  yet  already  an  immaculate  Ma- 
donna in  the  beauty  of  her  generous  soul.  He  was  young 
enough  in  his  knowledge  of  her  sex  to  be  unaware  that 
nature  often  gives  soft  trout-pool  eyes  of  tenderness 
to  coquettes  and  wonderful  hair  with  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  an  autumn-painted  valley  to  giggling  fools. 
Joyce  was  neither  coquette  nor  fool.  She  was  essential 
woman  in  the  making,  with  all  the  faults  and  fine  brave 
impulses  of  her  years.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  she  was 
showing  her  best  side  to  her  guest,  as  maidens  have  done 
to  men  since  Eve  first  smiled  on  Adam. 


202  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave  had  closed  his  heart  to  love.  It  was  to  have  no 
room  in  his  life.  To  his  morbid  sensibilities  the  shadow 
of  the  prison  walls  still  stretched  between  him  and 
Joyce.  It  did  not  matter  that  he  was  innocent,  that  all 
his  small  w^orld  would  soon  know  of  his  vindication. 
The  fact  stood.  For  years  he  had  been  shut  aw^ay  from 
men,  a  leprous  thing  labeled  "Unclean!"  He  had  dwelt 
in  a  place  of  furtive  whisperings,  of  sinister  sounds. 
His  nostrils  had  inhaled  the  odor  of  musty  clothes  and 
steamed  food.  His  fingers  had  touched  moisture  sweat- 
ing through  the  walls,  and  in  his  small  dark  cell  he  had 
hunted  graybacks.  The  hopeless  squalor  of  it  at  times 
had  driven  him  almost  mad.  As  he  saw  it  now,  his  guilt 
was  of  minor  importance.  If  he  had  not  fired  the  shot 
that  killed  George  Doble,  that  was  merely  a  chance  de- 
tail. What  counted  against  him  was  that  his  soul  was 
marked  with  the  taint  of  the  criminal  through  associa- 
tion and  habit  of  thought.  He  could  reason  with  this 
feeling  and  temporarily  destroy  it.  He  could  drag  it 
into  the  light  and  laugh  it  away.  But  subconsciously  it 
persisted  as  a  horror  from  which  he  could  not  escape.  A 
man  cannot  touch  pitch,  even  against  his  own  will,  and 
not  be  defiled. 

"You're  Keith's  hero,  you  know,"  the  girl  told  Dave, 
her  face  bubbling  to  unexpected  mirth.  "He  tries  to 
walk  and  talk  like  you.  He  asks  the  queerest  questions. 
To-day  I  caught  him  diving  at  a  pillow  on  the  bed.  He 
was  making-believe  to  be  you  when  you  were  shot." 

Her  nearness  in  the  soft,  shadowy  night  shook  his  self- 
control.  The  music  of  her  voice  with  its  drawling  inton- 
ations played  on  his  heartstrings. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  203 

"Think  I'll  go  now,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"You  must  come  again,"  she  told  him.  "Keith 
wants  you  to  teach  him  how  to  rope.  You  won't  mind, 
will  you?" 

The  long  lashes  lifted  innocently  from  the  soft  deep 
eyes,  which  rested  in  his  for  a  moment  and  set  clamor- 
ing a  disturbance  in  his  blood. 

"I'll  be  right  busy,"  he  said  awkwardly,  bluntly. 

She  drew  back  within  herself.  "I'd  forgotten  how 
busy  you  are,  Mr.  Sanders.  Of  course  we  must  n't  im- 
pose on  you,"  she  said,  cold  and  stiff  as  only  offended 
youth  can  be. 

Striding  into  the  night,  Dave  cursed  the  fate  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  He  had  hurt  her  boorishly  by 
his  curt  refusal  of  her  friendship.  Yet  the  heart  inside 
him  was  a  wild  river  of  love. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
AT  THE  JACKPOT 

THE  day  lasted  twenty-four  hours  in  Malapi.  As  San- 
ders walked  along  Junipero  Street,  on  his  way  to  the 
downtown  corral  from  Crawford's  house,  saloons  and 
gambling-houses  advertised  their  attractions  candidly 
and  noisily.  They  seemed  bursting  with  raw  and  vehe- 
ment life.  The  strains  of  fiddles  and  the  sound  of  shuf- 
fling feet  were  pierced  occasionally  by  the  whoop  of  a 
drunken  reveler.  Once  there  rang  out  the  high  notes  of 
a  woman's  hysterical  laughter.  Cowponies  and  packed 
burros  drooped  listlessly  at  the  hitching-rack.  Even 
loaded  wagons  were  waiting  to  take  the  road  as  soon  as 
the  drivers  could  tear  themselves  away  from  the  attrac- 
tions of  keno  and  a  last  drink. 

Junipero  Street  was  not  the  usual  crooked  lane  that 
serves  as  the  main  thoroughfare  for  business  in  a  mining 
town.  For  Malapi  had  been  a  cowtown  before  the  dis- 
covery of  oil.  It  lay  on  the  wide  prairie  and  not  ill  a 
gulch.  The  street  was  broad  and  dusty,  flanked  by 
false-front  stores,  flat-roofed  adobes,  and  corrugated 
iron  buildings  imported  hastily  since  the  first  boom. 

At  the  Stag  Horn  corral  Dave  hired  a  horse  and  sad- 
dled for  a  night  ride.  On  his  way  to  the  Jackpot  he 
passed  a  dozen  outfits  headed  for  the  new  strike.  They 
were  hauling  supplies  of  food,  tools,  timbers,  and  ma- 
chinery to  the  oil  camp.  Out  of  the  night  a  mule  skinner 
shouted  a  profane  and  drunken  greeting  to  him.  A 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  205 

Mexican  with  a  burro  train  gave  him  a  low-voiced 
"Buenos  noches,  senor." 

A  fine  mist  of  oil  began  to  spray  him  when  he  was  still 
a  mile  away  from  the  well.  It  grew  denser  as  he  came 
nearer.  He  found  Bob  Hart,  in  oilskins  and  rubber 
boots,  bossing  a  gang  of  scrapers,  giving  directions  to  a 
second  one  building  a  dam  across  a  draw,  and  supervis- 
ing a  third  group  engaged  in  siphoning  crude  oil  from 
one  sump  to  another.  From  head  to  foot  Hart  and  his 
assistants  were  wet  to  the  skin  with  the  black  crude 
oil. 

"'Lo,  Dave!  One  sure-enough  little  spouter!"  Bob 
shouted  cheerfully.  "Number  Three 's  sure  a-hittin'  her 
up.  She's  no  cougher  —  stays  right  steady  on  the  job. 
Bet  I've  wallowed  in  a  million  barrels  of  the  stuff  since 
mo'nin'."  He  waded  through  a  viscid  pool  to  Dave 
and  asked  a  question  in  a  low  voice.  "What's  the  good 
word?" 

"We  had  a  little  luck,"  admitted  Sanders,  then 
plumped  out  his  budget  of  news.  "Got  the  express 
money  back,  captured  one  of  the  robbers,  forced  a  con- 
fession out  of  him,  and  left  him  with  the  sheriff." 

Bob  did  an  Indian  war  dance  in  hip  boots.  "You're 
the  darndest  go-getter  ever  I  did  see.  Tell  it  to  me,  you 
ornery  oP  scalawag." 

His  friend  told  the  story  of  the  day  so  far  as  it  related 
to  the  robbery. 

"I  could  'a'  told  you  Miller  would  weaken  when  you 
had  the  rope  round  his  soft  neck.  Shorty  would  'a'  gone 
lorough  and  told  you-all  where  to  get  off  at." 

"Yes.  Miller's  yellow.  He  did  n't  quit  with  the  rob- 


206  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

bery,  Bob.  Must  have  been  scared  bad,  I  reckon.  He 
admitted  that  he  killed  George  Doble  —  by  accident, 
he  claimed.  Says  Doble  ran  in  front  of  him  while  he  was 
shooting  at  me." 

"Have  you  got  that  down  on  paper?"  demanded 
Hart. 

"Yes." 

Bob  caught  his  friend's  hand.  "I  reckon  the  long  lane 
has  turned  for  you,  old  socks.  I  can't  tell  you  how  damn 
glad  I  am.  Doble  needed  killin',  but  I'd  rather  you 
had  n't  done  it." 

The  other  man  made  no  comment  on  this  phase  of  the 
situation.  "This  brings  Dug  Doble  out  into  the  open  at 
last.  He'll  come  pretty  near  going  to  the  pen  for  this." 

"I  can't  see  Applegate  arrestin'  him.  He'll  fight, 
Dug  will.  My  notion  is  he  '11  take  to  the  hills  and  throw 
off  all  pretense.  If  he  does  he  '11  be  the  worst  killer  ever 
was  known  in  this  part  of  the  country.  You  an'  Craw- 
ford want  to  look  out  for  him,  Dave." 

"Crawford  says  he  wants  me  to  be  treasurer  of  the 
company,  Bob.  You  and  I  are  to  manage  it,  he  says, 
with  Burns  doing  the  drilling." 

"Tha's  great.  He  told  me  he  was  gonna  ask  you. 
Betcha  we  make  the  ol'  Jackpot  hum." 

"D'  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  land  poor,  Bob?" 

"Sure  have." 

"Well,  right  now  we're  oil  poor.  According  to  what 
the  old  man  says  there's  no  cash  in  the  treasury  and 
we ' ve  got  bills  that  have  to  be  Daid.  You  know  that  ten 
thousand  he  paid  in  to  the  bank  to  satisfy  the  note.  He 
borrowed  it  from  a  friend  who  took  it  out  of  a  trust  fund 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  20? 

to  loan  it  to  him.  He  did  n't  tell  me  who  the  man  is,  but 
he  said  his  friend  would  get  into  trouble  a-plenty  if  it 's 
found  out  before  he  replaces  the  money.  Then  we've 
got  to  keep  our  labor  bills  paid  right  up.  Some  of  the 
other  accounts  can  wait." 

"Can't  we  borrow  money  on  this  gusher?" 

"We'll  have  to  do  that.  Trouble  is  that  oil  is  n't  a 
marketable  asset  until  it  reaches  a  refinery.  We  can  sell 
stock,  of  course,  but  we  don't  want  to  do  much  of  that 
unless  we  're  forced  to  it.  Our  play  is  to  keep  control  and 
not  let  any  other  interest  in  to  oust  us.  It's  going  to 
take  some  scratching." 

"Looks  like,"  agreed  Bob.  "Any  use  tryin'  the  bank 
here?" 

"I'll  try  it,  but  we'll  not  accept  any  call  loan.  They 
say  Steelman  owns  the  bank.  He  won't  let  us  have 
money  unless  there's  some  nigger  in  the  woodpile.  I'll 
probably  have  to  try  Denver." 

"That '11  take  time." 

"Yes.  And  time's  one  thing  we  have  n't  got  any  too 
much  of.  Whoever  underwrites  this  for  us  will  send  an 
expert  back  with  me  and  will  wait  for  his  report  before 
making  a  loan.  We'll  have  to  talk  it  over  with  Craw- 
ford and  find  out  how  much  treasury  stock  we  '11  have 
to  sell  locally  to  keep  the  business  going  till  I  make  a 
raise." 

"  You  and  the  old  man  decide  that,  Dave.  I  can't  get 
away  from  here  till  we  get  Number  Three  roped  and 
muzzled.  I'll  vote  for  whatever  you  two  say." 

An  hour  later  Dave  rode  back  to  town. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
DAVE  MEETS  A  FINANCIER 

ON  more  careful  consideration  Crawford  and  Sanders 
decided  against  trying  to  float  the  Jackpot  with  local 
money  except  by  the  sale  of  enough  stock  to  keep  going 
until  the  company's  affairs  could  be  put  on  a  substantial 
basis.  To  apply  to  the  Malapi  bank  for  a  loan  would  be 
to  expose  their  financial  condition  to  Steelman,  and  it 
was  certain  that  he  would  permit  no  accommodation 
except  upon  terms  that  would  make  it  possible  to  wreck 
the  company. 

"I'm  takin'  the  train  for  Denver  to-morrow,  Dave," 
the  older  man  said.  "You  stay  here  for  two- three  days 
and  sell  enough  stock  to  keep  us  off  the  rocks,  then  you 
hot-foot  it  for  Denver  too.  By  the  time  you  get  there 
I'll  have  it  all  fixed  up  with  the  Governor  about  a  par- 
don." 

Dave  found  no  difficulty  in  disposing  of  a  limited 
amount  of  stock  in  Malapi  at  a  good  price.  This  done, 
he  took  the  stage  for  the  junction  and  followed  Craw- 
ford to  Denver.  An  unobtrusive  little  man  with  large 
white  teeth  showing  stood  in  line  behind  him  at  the 
ticket  window.  His  destination  also,  it  appeared,  was 
the  Colorado  capital. 

If  Dave  had  been  a  believer  in  fairy  tales  he  might 
have  thought  himself  the  hero  of  one.  A  few  days  earlier 
he  had  come  to  Malapi  on  this  same  train,  in  a  day 
coach,  poorly  dressed,  with  no  job  and  no  prospects  in 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  209 

life.  He  had  been  poor,  discredited,  a  convict  on  parole. 
Now  he  wore  good  clothes,  traveled  in  a  Pullman,  ate  in 
the  diner,  was  a  man  of  consequence,  and,  at  least  on 
*  paper,  was  on  the  road  to  wealth.  He  would  put  up  at 
the  Albany  instead  of  a  cheap  rooming-house,  and  he 
would  meet  on  legitimate  business  some  of  the  big  finan- 
cial men  of  the  West.  The  thing  was  hardly  thinkable, 
yet  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  had  done  it  for  him  in 
an  hour. 

The  position  in  which  Sanders  found  himself  was 
possible  only  because  Crawford  wras  himself  a  financial 
babe  in  the  woods.  He  had  borrowed  large  sums  of 
money  often,  but  always  from  men  who  trusted  him  and 
held  his  word  as  better  security  than  collateral.  The 
cattleman  was  of  the  outdoors  type  to  whom  the  letter 
of  the  law  means  little.  A  debt  was  a  debt,  and  a  piece 
of  paper  with  his  name  on  it  did  not  make  payment  any 
more  obligatory.  If  he  had  knowTi  more  about  capital 
and  its  methods  of  finding  an  outlet,  he  would  never 
have  sent  so  unsophisticated  a  man  as  Dave  Sanders  on 
such  a  mission. 

For  Dave,  too,  wras  a  child  in  the  business  world.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  inside  deals  by  which  industrial 
enterprises  are  underwritten  and  corporations  managed. 
It  was,  he  supposed,  sufficient  for  his  purpose  that  the 
company  for  which  he  wanted  backing  was  sure  to  pay 
large  dividends  when  properly  put  on  its  feet. 

But  Dave  had  assets  of  value  even  for  such  a  task.  lie 
had  a  single-track  mind.  He  was  determined  even  to  ob- 
stinacy. He  thought  straight,  and  so  directly  that  he  could 
walk  through  subtleties  without  knowing  they  existed. 


210  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

When  he  reached  Denver  he  discovered  that  Craw- 
ford had  followed  the  Governor  to  the  western  part  of 
the  State,  where  that  official  had  gone  to  open  a  sec- 
tional fair.  Sanders  had  no  credentials  except  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  manager  of  the  stockyards. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  asked  that  gentleman.  He 
was  quite  willing  to  exert  himself  moderately  as  a  favor 
to  Emerson  Crawford,  vice-president  of  the  American 
Live  Stock  Association. 

"I  want  to  meet  Horace  Graham." 

"I  can  give  you  a  note  of  introduction  to  him.  You '11 
probably  have  to  get  an  appointment  with  him  through 
his  secretary.  He's  a  tremendously  busy  man." 

Dave's  talk  with  the  great  man's  secretary  over  the  tel- 
ephone was  not  satisfactory.  Mr.  Graham,  he  learned, 
had  every  moment  full  for  the  next  two  days,  after 
which  he  would  leave  for  a  business  trip  to  the  East. 

There  were  other  wealthy  men  in  Denver  who  might 
be  induced  to  finance  the  Jackpot,  but  Dave  intended  to 
see  Graham  first.  The  big  railroad  builder  was  a  fighter. 
He  was  hammering  through,  in  spite  of  heavy  opposi- 
tion from  trans-continental  lines,  a  short  cut  across  the 
Rocky  Mountains  from  Denver.  He  was  a  pioneer,  one 
who  would  take  a  chance  on  a  good  thing  in  the  plung- 
ing, Western  way.  In  his  rugged,  clean-cut  character 
was  much  that  appealed  to  the  managers  of  the  Jack- 
pot. 

Sanders  called  at  the  financier's  office  and  sent  in  his 
card  by  the  youthful  Cerberus  who  kept  watch  at  the 
gate.  The  card  got  no  farther  than  the  great  man's 
private  secretary. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  211 

After  a  wait  of  more  than  an  hour  Dave  made  over- 
tures to  the  boy.  A  dollar  passed  from  him  to  the  youth 
and  established  a  friendly  relation. 

"What's  the  best  way  to  reach  Mr.  Graham,  son? 
I've  got  important  business  that  won't  wait." 

"Dunno.  He's  awful  busy.  You  ain't  got  no  ap- 
pointment." 

"Can  you  get  a  note  to  him?  I've  got  a  five-dollar 
bill  for  you  if  you  can." 

"I'll  take  a  whirl  at  it.   Jus'  'fore  he  goes  to  lunch." 

Dave  penciled  a  line  on  a  card. 

If  you  are  not  too  busy  to  make  $100, 000  to-day  you  had 
better  see  me. 

He  signed  his  name. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  office  boy  caught  Graham  as  he 
rose  to  leave  for  lunch.  The  big  man  read  the  note. 

"What  kind  of  looking  fellow  is  he?"  he  asked  the 
boy. 

"Kinda  solemn-lookin'  guy,  sir."  The  boy  remem- 
bered the  dollar  received  on  account  and  the  five  dollars 
on  the  horizon.  "Big,  straight-standin',  honest  fellow. 
From  Arizona  or  Texas,  mebbe.  Looked  good  to  me." 

The  financier  frowned  down  at  the  note  in  doubt, 
twisting  it  in  his  fingers.  A  dozen  times  a  week  his; 
privacy  was  assailed  by  some  crazy  inventor  or  crook 
promoter.  He  remembered  that  he  had  had  a  letter 
from  some  one  about  this  man.  Something  of  strength 
in  the  chirography  of  the  note  in  his  hand  and  some- 
thing of  simple  directness  in  the  wording  decided  him 
to  give  an  interview. 


212  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Show  him  in,"  he  said  abruptly,  and  while  he  waited 
in  the  office  rated  himself  for  his  folly  in  wasting  time. 

Underneath  bushy  brows  steel-gray  eyes  took  Dave 
in  shrewdly. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  snapped  the  millionaire. 

"The  new  gusher  in  the  Malapi  pool,"  answered 
Sanders  at  once,  and  his  gaze  was  as  steady  as  that  of 
the  big  state-builder. 

"You  represent  the  parties  that  own  it?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want?" 

" Financial  backing  to  put  it  on  its  feet  until  we  can 
market  the  product." 

"Why  don't  you  work  through  your  local  bank?" 

"Another  oil  man,  an  enemy  of  our  company,  controls 
the  Malapi  bank." 

Graham  fired  question  after  question  at  him,  crisply, 
abruptly,  and  Sanders  gave  him  back  straight,  short 
answers. 

"Sit  down,"  ordered  the  railroad  builder,  resuming  his 
own  seat.  "Tell  me  the  whole  story  of  the  company." 

Dave  told  it,  and  in  the  telling  he  found  it  necessary 
to  sketch  the  Crawford-Steelman  feud.  He  brought 
himself  into  the  narrative  as  little  as  possible,  but  the 
grizzled  millionaire  drew  enough  from  him  to  set  Gra- 
ham's eye  to  sparkling.  » 

"Come  back  to-morrow  at  noon,"  decided  the  great 
man.  "I'll  let  you  know  my  decision  then." 

The  young  man  knew  he  was  dismissed,  but  he  left  the 
office  elated.  Graham  had  been  favorably  impressed. 
He  liked  the  proposition,  believed  in  its  legitimacy  and 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  213 

its  possibilities.  Dave  felt  sure  he  would  send  an  expert 
to  Malapi  with  him  to  report  on  it  as  an  investment.  If 
so,  he  would  almost  certainly  agree  to  put  money  in  it. 
A  man  with  prominent  white  front  teeth  had  fol- 
lowed Dave  to  the  office  of  Horace  Graham,  had  seen 
him  enter,  and  later  had  seen  him  come  out  with  a  look 
on  his  face  that  told  of  victory.  The  man  tried  to  get 
admittance  to  the  financier  and  failed.  He  went  back 
to  his  hotel  and  wrote  a  short  letter  which  he  signed  with 
a  fictitious  name.  This  he  sent  by  special  delivery  to 
Graham.  The  letter  was  brief  and  to  the  point.  It  said: 

Don't  do  business  with  David  Sanders  without  investigat- 
ing his  record.  He  is  a  horsethief  and  a  convicted  murderer. 
Some  months  ago  he  was  paroled  from  the  penitentiary  at 
Canon  City  and  since  then  has  been  in  several  shooting 
scrapes.  He  was  accused  of  robbing  a  stage  and  murdering 
the  driver  less  than  a  week  ago. 

Graham  read  the  letter  and  called  in  his  private 
secretary.  "McMurray,  get  Canon  City  on  the  'phone 
and  find  out  if  a  man  called  David  Sanders  was  released 
from  the  penitentiary  there  lately.  If  so,  what  was  he 
in  for?  Describe  the  man  to  the  warden:  under  twenty- 
five,  tall,  straight  as  an  Indian,  strongly  built,  looks  at 
you  level  and  steady,  brown  hair,  steel-blue  eyes.  Do 
it  now." 

Before  he  left  the  office  that  afternoon  Graham  had 
before  him  a  typewritten  memorandum  from  his  secre- 
tary covering  the  case  of  David  Sanders. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THREE  IN  CONSULTATION 

THE  grizzled  railroad  builder  fixed  Sanders  with  an  eye 
that  had  read  into  the  soul  of  many  a  shirker  and  many 
a  dishonest  schemer. 

"How  long  have  you  been  with  the  Jackpot  Com- 
pany?" 

"Not  long.   Only  a  few  days." 

"How  much  stock  do  you  own?" 

"Ten  thousand  shares." 

"How  did  you  get  it?" 

"It  was  voted  me  by  the  directors  for  saving  Jackpot 
Number  Three  from  an  attack  of  Steelman's  men." 

Graham's  gaze  bored  into  the  eyes  of  his  caller.  He 
waited  just  a  moment  to  give  his  question  full  emphasis. 
"Mr.  Sanders,  what  were  you  doing  six  months  ago?" 

"I  was  serving  time  in  the  penitentiary,"  came  the 
immediate  quiet  retort. 

"What  for?" 

6 '  For  manslaughter. ' ' 

"You  did  n't  tell  me  this  yesterday." 

"No.  It  has  no  bearing  on  the  value  of  the  proposi- 
tion I  submitted  to  you,  and  I  thought  it  might  preju- 
dice you  against  it." 

"Have  you  been  in  any  trouble  since  you  left  prison? " 

Dave  hesitated.  The  blazer  of  railroad  trails  rapped 
out  a  sharp,  explanatory  question.  "Any  shooting 
scrapes?" 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  215 

"A  man  shot  at  me  in  Malapi.   I  was  unarmed." 

"That  all?" 

"Another  man  fired  at  me  out  at  the  Jackpot.  I 
was  unarmed  then." 

"Were  you  accused  of  holding  up  a  stage,  robbing  it, 
and  killing  the  driver?" 

"  No.  I  was  twenty  miles  away  at  the  time  of  the 
holdup  and  had  evidence  to  prove  it." 

"Then  you  were  mentioned  in  connection  with  the 
robbery?" 

"If  so,  only  by  my  enemies.  One  of  the  robbers  was 
captured  and  made  a  full  confession.  He  showed  where 
the  stolen  gold  was  cached  and  it  was  recovered." 

The  great  man  looked  with  chilly  eyes  at  the  young 
fellow  standing  in  front  of  him.  He  had  a  sense  of  hav- 
ing been  tricked  and  imposed  upon. 

"I  have  decided  not  to  accept  your  proposition  to 
cooperate  with  you  in  financing  the  Jackpot  Company, 
Mr.  Sanders."  Horace  Graham  pressed  an  electric  but- 
ton and  a  clerk  appeared.  "Show  this  gentleman  out, 
Hervey." 

But  Sanders  stood  his  ground.  Nobody  could  have 
guessed  from  his  stolid  imperturbability  how  much  he 
was  depressed  at  this  unexpected  failure. 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  are  declining  this  loan 
because  I  am  connected  with  it,  Mr.  Graham?" 

"I  do  not  give  a  reason,  sir.  The  loan  does  not  appeal 
to  me,"  the  railroad  builder  said  with  chill  finality. 

"It  appealed  to  you  yesterday,"  persisted  Dave. 

"But  not  to-day.  Hervey,  I  will  see  Mr.  Gates  at 
once.  Tell  McMurray  so." 


216  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Reluctantly  Dave  followed  the  clerk  out  of  the 
room.  He  had  been  checkmated,  but  he  did  not  know 
how.  In  some  way  Steelman  had  got  to  the  financier 
with  this  story  that  had  damned  the  project.  The  new 
treasurer  of  the  Jackpot  Company  was  much  distressed. 
If  his  connection  with  the  company  was  going  to  have 
this  effect,  he  must  resign  at  once. 

He  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  and  in  the  corridor  of  the 
Albany  met  a  big  bluff  cattleman  the  memory  of  whose 
kindness  leaped  across  the  years  to  warm  his  heart. 

4 'You  don't  remember  me,  Mr.  West?" 

The  owner  of  the  Fifty-Four  Quarter  Circle  looked 
at  the  young  man  and  gave  a  little  whoop.  "Damn  my 
skin,  if  it  ain't  the  boy  who  bluffed  a  whole  railroad 
system  into  l.ettin'  him  reload  stock  for  me!"  He 
hooked  an  arm  under  Dave's  and  led  him  straight  to 
the  bar.  "Where  you  been?  What  you  doin'?  Why  n't 
you  come  to  me  soon  as  you  .  .  .  got  out  of  a  job? 
What '11  you  have,  boy?" 

Dave  named  ginger  ale.   They  lifted  glasses. 

"How?" 

"How?" 

"Now  you  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  West  presently, 
leading  the  way  to  a  lounge  seat  in  the  mezzanine  gal- 
lery. 

Sanders  answered  at  first  in  monosyllables,  but  pres- 
ently he  found  himself  telling  the  story  of  his  failure 
to  enlist  Horace  Graham  in  the  Jackpot  property  as  a 
backer. 

The  cattleman  began  to  rumple  his  hair,  just  as  he 
had  done  years  ago  in  moments  of  excitement. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  217 

"Wish  I'd  known,  boy.  I've  been  acquainted  with 
Horace  Graham  ever  since  he  ran  a  hardware  store  on 
Larimer  Street,  and  that 's  'most  thirty  years  ago.  I  'd 
'a'  gone  with  you  to  see  him.  Maybe  I  can  see  him 


now." 


"You  can't  change  the  facts,  Mr.  West.  When  he 
knew  I  was  a  convict  he  threw  the  whole  thing  over- 
board." 

The  voice  of  a  page  in  the  lobby  rose  in  sing-song. 
"Mister  Sa-a-anders.  Mis-ter  Sa-a-a-anders." 

Dave  stepped  to  the  railing  and  called  down.  "I'm 
Mr.  Sanders.  Who  wants  me?" 

A  man  near  the  desk  waved  a  paper  and  shouted: 
"Hello,  Dave!  News  for  you,  son.  I '11  come  up."  The 
speaker  was  Crawford. 

He  shook  hands  with  Dave  and  with  West  while  he 
ejaculated  his  news  in  jets.  "I  got  it,  son.  Got  it  right 
here.  Came  back  with  the  Governor  this  mo'nin'.  Called 
together  Pardon  Board.  Here  't  is.  Clean  bill  of  health, 
son.  Resolutions  of  regret  for  miscarriage  of  justice. 
Big  story  front  page  's  afternoon's  papers." 

Dave  smiled  sardonically.  "You're  just  a  few  hours 
late,  Mr.  Crawford.  Graham  turned  us  down  cold  this 
morning  because  I'm  a  penitentiary  bird." 

"He did?"  Crawford  began  to  boil  inside.  "Well,  he 
can  go  right  plumb  to  Yuma.  Anybody  so  small  as 
that  —  " 

"Hold  yore  hawsses,  Em,"  said  West,  smiling. 
"Graham  did  n't  know  the  facts.  If  you  was  a  capitalist 
an'  thinkin'  of  loanin'  big  money  to  a  man  you  found 
out  had  been  in  prison  for  manslaughter  and  that  he 


218  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

had  since  been  accused  of  robbin'  a  stage  an'  killing 
the  driver  —  " 

"He  was  in  a  hurry/'  explained  Dave.  "Going  East 
to-morrow.  Some  one  must  have  got  at  him  after  I  saw 
him.  He  'd  made  up  his  mind  when  I  went  back  to-day," 

"Well,  Horace  Graham  ain't  one  of  those  who  won't 
change  his  views  for  heaven,  hell,  and  high  water.    All 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  get  to  him  and  make  him  see  the] 
light,"  said  West. 

"When  are  we  going  to  do  all  that?"  asked  Sanders. 
"He's  busy  every  minute  of  the  time  till  he  starts.  He 
won't  give  us  an  appointment." 

"He'll  see  me.  We're  old  friends,"  predicted  West 
confidently. 

Crestfallen,  he  met  the  two  officers  of  the  Jackpot 
Company  three   hours   later.    "Couldn't  get  to  him. 
Sent  word  out  he  was  sorry,  an'  how  was  Mrs.  West? 
an'  the  children,  but  he  was  in  conference  an'  could  n't , 
break  away." 

Dave  nodded.  He  had  expected  this  and  prepared  i 
for  it.  "I've  found  out  he's  going  on  the  eight  o'clock  ; 
flyer.  You  going  to  be  busy  to-morrow,  Mr.  West?" 

"No.  I  got  business  at  the  stockyards,  but  I  can  put 
it  off." 

"Then  I '11  get  tickets  for  Omaha  on  the  flyer.  Gra-  | 
ham  will  take  his  private  car.  We  '11  break  in  and  put  I 
this  up  to  him.  He  was  friendly  to  our  proposition  be-1 
fore  he  got  the  wrong  slant  on  it.  If  he 's  open-minded,  j 
as  Mr.  West  says  he  is  —  " 

Crawford  slapped  an  open  hand  on  his  thigh.  "Say,  \ 
you  get  the  best  ideas,  son.  We'll  do  just  that." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  219 

"I'll  check  up  and  make  sure  Graham  *s  going  on  the 
3yer,"  said  the  young  man.  "If  we  fall  down  we'll  lose 
only  a  day.  Come  back  when  we  meet  the  night  train. 
[  reckon  we  won't  have  to  get  tickets  clear  through  to 
Omaha." 

"Fine  and  dandy/'  agreed  West.  "We'll  sure  see 
Graham  if  we  have  to  bust  the  door  of  his  car." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
ON  THE  FLYER 

WEST,  his  friends  not  in  evidence,  artfully  waylaid 
Graham  on  his  way  to  the  private  car. 

"Hello,  Henry  B.  Sorry  I  couldn't  see  you  yester- 
day," the  railroad  builder  told  West  as  they  shook 
hands.  "You  taking  this  train?" 

"Yes,  sir.   Got  business  takes  me  East." 

"Drop  in  to  see  me  some  time  this  morning.  Say 
about  noon.  You'll  have  lunch  with  me." 

"Suits  me.  About  noon,  then,"  agreed  West. 

The  conspirators  modified  their  plans  to  meet  a  new 
strategic  situation.  West  was  still  of  opinion  that  he  had 
better  use  his  card  of  entry  to  get  his  friends  into  the 
railroad  builder's  car,  but  he  yielded  to  Dave's  view 
that  it  would  be  wiser  for  the  cattleman  to  pave  the 
way  at  luncheon. 

Graham's  secretary  ate  lunch  with  the  two  old-timers 
and  the  conversation  threatened  to  get  away  from  West 
and  hover  about  financial  conditions  in  New  York.  The 
cattleman  brought  it  by  awkward  main  force  to  the 
subject  he  had  in  mind. 

"Say,  Horace,  I  wanta  talk  with  you  about  a  propo- 
sition that's  on  my  chest,"  he  broke  out. 

Graham  helped  himself  to  a  lamb  chop.  "Sail  in, 
Henry  B.  You  Ve  got  me  at  your  mercy." 

At  the  first  mention  of  the  Jackpot  gusher  the  finan- 
cier raised  a  prohibitive  hand.  "I've  disposed  of  that 
matter.  No  use  reopening  it." 


GUXSIGHT  PASS  221 

But  West  stuck  to  his  guns.  "I  ain't  aimin'  to  try  to 
change  yore  mind  on  a  matter  of  business,  Horace. 
If  you'll  tell  ine  that  you  turned  down  the  proposition 
because  it  did  n't  look  to  you  like  there  was  money  in 
it,  I'll  curl  right  up  and  not  say  another  word." 

"It  does  n't  matter  why  I  turned  it  down.  I  had  my 
reasons." 

"It  matters  if  you're  doin'  an  injustice  to  one  of  the 
finest  young  fellows  I  know,"  insisted  the  New  Mexican 
stanchly. 

"Meaning  the  convict?" 

"Call  him  that  if  you've  a  mind  to.  The  Governor 
pardoned  him  yesterday  because  another  man  confessed 
he  did  the  killin'  for  which  Dave  was  convicted.  The 
boy  was  railroaded  through  on  false  evidence." 

The  railroad  builder  was  a  fair-minded  man.  He  did 
not  want  to  be  unjust  to  any  one.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  not  one  to  jump  easily  from  one  view  to  another. 

"I  noticed  something  in  the  papers  about  a  pardon, 
but  I  did  n't  know  it  was  our  young  oil  promoter. 
There  are  other  rumors  about  him  too.  A  stage  robbery, 
for  instance,  and  a  murder  with  it/' 

"He  and  Em  Crawford  ran  down  the  robbers  and  got 
the  money  back.  One  of  the  robbers  confessed.  Dave 
had  n't  a  thing  to  do  with  the  hold-up.  There's  a  bad 
gang  down  in  that  country.  Crawford  and  Sanders 
have  been  fightin'  'em,  so  naturally  they  tell  lies  about 
'em." 

"Did  you  say  this  Sanders  ran  down  one  of  the 
robbers?" 

"Yes." 


222  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"He  did  n't  tell  me  that,"  said  Graham  thoughtfully. 
"I  liked  the  young  fellow  when  I  first  saw  him.  He 
looks  quiet  and  strong;  a  self-reliant  fellow  would  be 
my  guess." 

"You  bet  he  is."  West  laughed  reminiscently. 
"Lemme  tell  you  how  I  first  met  him."  He  told  the 
story  of  how  Dave  had  handled  the  stock  shipment  for 
him  years  before. 

Horace  Graham  nodded  shrewdly.  "Exactly  the  way 
I  had  him  sized  up  till  I  began  investigating  him.  Well, 
let's  hear  the  rest.  What  more  do  you  know  about 
him?" 

The  Albuquerque  man  told  the  other  of  Dave's  con- 
viction, of  how  he  had  educated  himself  in  the  peni- 
tentiary, of  his  return  home  and  subsequent  adventures 
there. 

"There's  a  man  back  there  in  the  Pullman  knows 
him  like  he  was  his  own  son,  a  straight  man,  none  better 
in  this  Western  country,"  West  concluded. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Emerson  Crawford  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  ranch." 

"I've  heard  of  him.  He's  in  this  Jackpot  company 
too,  isn't  he?" 

"He's  president  of  it.  If  he  says  the  company's 
right,  then  it's  right." 

"Bring  him  in  to  me." 

West  reported  to  his  friends,  a  large  smile  on  his 
wrinkled  face.  "I  got  him  goin'  south,  boys.  Come 
along,  Em,  it's  up  to  you  now." 

The  big  financier  took  one  comprehensive  look  at 
Emerson  Crawford  and  did  not  need  any  letter  of  rec- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  223 

ommendation.  A  vigorous  honesty  spoke  in  the  strong 
hand-grip,  the  genial  smile,  the  level,  steady  eyes. 

"Tell  me  about  this  young  desperado  you  gentlemen 
are  trying  to  saw  off  on  me,"  Graham  directed,  meeting 
the  smile  with  another  and  offering  cigars  to  his  guests. 

Crawford  told  him.  He  began  with  the  story  of  the 
time  Sanders  and  Hart  had  saved  him  from  the  house 
of  his  enemy  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed.  He  re- 
lated how  the  boy  had  pursued  the  men  who  stole  his 
pinto  and  the  reasoning  which  had  led  him  to  take  it 
without  process  of  law.  He  told  the  true  story  of  the 
killing,  of  the  young  fellow's  conviction,  of  his  attempt 
to  hold  a  job  in  Denver  without  concealing  his  past, 
and  of  his  busy  week  since  returning  to  Malapi. 

"All  I've  got  to  say  is  that  I  hope  my  boy  will  grow 
up  to  be  as  good  a  man  as  Dave  Sanders,"  the  cattleman 
finished,  and  he  turned  over  to  Graham  a  copy  of  the 
findings  of  the  Pardon  Board,  of  the  pardon,  and  of  the 
newspapers  containing  an  account  of  the  affair  with  a 
review  of  the  causes  that  had  led  to  the  miscarriage  of 
justice. 

"Now  about  your  Jackpot  Company.  What  do  you 
figure  as  the  daily  output  of  the  gusher?  "  asked  Graham. 

"Don't  know.  It's  a  whale  of  a  well.  Seems  to  have 
tapped  a  great  lake  of  oil  half  a  mile  underground.  My 
driller  Burns  figures  it  at  from  twenty  to  thirty  thou- 
sand barrels  a  day.  I  cayn't  even  guess,  because  I 
know  so  blamed  little  about  oil." 

Graham  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  rushing  land- 
scape and  tapped  on  the  table  with  his  finger-tips  absent- 
mindedly.  Presently  he  announced  a  decision  crisply. 


<;UNSK;HT  PASS 

"If  you'll  leave  your  papers  here  I'll  look  I  hem  over 
and  lei  you  know  \\hal  I'll  do.  \Yheii  Tin  ready  I'll 
soud  MeMnrray  forward  lo  you." 

An  hour  later  ihc  srcn-lary  auuouiKXMl  lo  llic 
IIUMI  in  llir  INillinnn  lli<v  decision  ol'  liis  cliii^'. 

4C  Mr.  (indi.-uu  has  inslrurlrd  nir  lo  U-ll  you  tfrnll 
ho'll   look   inlo  your  proposition.     I   am    wiring  au   oil 
rxpi'rl   in  l><Mi\<-r  lo  ivlurn  \\ilh  you  to  JNIahipi.    II'  his 
n-|)orl  is  l'a\  orahK',  Mr.  (iraham  will  coiipi-rale  \vil  h  yon 
in  dovi'lopin.^  I  he  field." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
TWO  ON  THE  HILLTOPS 

IT  was  the  morning  after  his  return.  Emerson  Crawford 
hdpcd  birrj.-/:lf  to  another  fried  <•#</  from  tta  plaUer  arid 
shook  his  knife  at  the  bright-eyed  girl  opposite. 

"  I  j ,  honey,  the  boy 's  a  wonder/'  he  insisted. 

"Knows  what  he  wants  and  goes  right  after  it  Don't 
waste  any  words.  Don't  beat  around  th<:  huh.  Don't 
let  any  one  bluff  him  out.  Graham  says  if  I  don't  want 
him  hell  give  him  a  responsible  job  proij 

The  girl's  trim  head  tilted  at  her  father  in  a  smile  of 
sweet  derision.  She  was  pleased,  but  she  did  not  intend 
to  .say  so. 

"I  believe  you're  in  love  with  Dave  Sanders,  Dad. 
It's  about  time  for  me  to  be  jealous." 

Crawford  defended  himself.  "  He 's  had  a  hard  row  to 
hoe,  and  he's  eomin'  out  fine.  I  aim  to  give  him  every 
chance  in  the  world  to  make  good.  It's  up  to  us  to 
stand  by  Li: 

"If  he'll  let  us."  Joyce  jumped  up  and  ran  round  the 
table  to  him.  They  were  alone,  Keith  having  departed 
with  a  top  to  join  his  playmates.  She  sat  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair,  a  straight,  slim  creature  very  much  alive, 
pressed  her  face  of  flushed  loveliness  against  his  head 
"It  won't  be  your  fault,  old  duck,  if  things  don't  go  well 
with  him.  You  're  good  —  the  best  ever  —  a  jim-dandy 
friend.  But  he 's  so — so  —  Oh,  I  don't  know — stiff  as 
a  poker.  Acts  as  if  he  does  n't  want  to  be  friends,  as  if 


226  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

we  're  all  ready  to  turn  against  him.  He  makes  me  good 
and  tired,  Dad.  Why  can't  he  be  —  human?" 

"Now,  Joy,  you  got  to  remember  — " 

" —  that  he  was  in  prison  and  had  an  awful  time  of  it. 
Oh,  yes,  I  remember  all  that.  He  won't  let  us  forget  it. 
It 's  just  like  he  held  us  off  all  the  time  and  insisted  on  us 
not  forgetting  it.  I'd  just  like  to  shake  the  foolishness 
out  of  him."  A  rueful  little  laugh  welled  from  her  throat 
at  the  thought. 

"He  cayn't  be  gay  as  Bob  Hart  all  at  onct.  Give  him 
time." 

"You're  so  partial  to  him  you  don't  see  when  he's 
doing  wrong.  But  I  see  it.  Yesterday  he  hardly  spoke 
when  I  met  him.  Ridiculous.  It's  all  right  for  him  to 
hold  back  and  be  kinda  reserved  with  outsiders.  But 
with  his  friends  —  you  and  Bob  and  old  Buck  Byington 
and  me  —  he  ought  not  to  shut  himself  up  in  an  ice 
cave.  And  I'm  going  to  tell  him  so." 

The  cattleman's  arm  slid  round  her  warm  young  body 
and  drew  her  close.  She  was  to  him  the  dearest  thing  in 
the  world,  a  never-failing,  exquisite  wonder  and  mys- 
tery. Sometimes  even  now  he  was  amazed  that  this  rare 
spirit  had  found  the  breath  of  life  through  him. 

"You  wanta  remember  you're  a  IFF  lady,"  he  re- 
proved. "You  would  n't  want  to  do  anything  you'd  be 
sorry  for,  honeybug." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  she  flushed,  amusement 
rippling  her  face.  "Some  one 's  got  to  blow  up  that  young 
man  like  a  Dutch  uncle,  and  I  think  I  'm  elected.  I  '11 
try  not  to  think  about  being  a  lady;  then  I  can  do  my 
full  duty,  Dad.  It'll  be  fun  to  see  how  he  takes  it." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  227 

"Now  —  now,"  he  remonstrated. 

"It's  all  right  to  be  proud/'  she  went  on.  "I  would 
n't  want  to  see  him  hold  his  head  any  lower.  But 
there's  no  sense  in  being  so  offish  that  even  his  friends 
have  to  give  him  up.  And  that 's  what  it  '11  come  to  if  he 
acts  the  way  he  does.  Folks  will  stand  just  so  much. 
Then  they  give  up  trying." 

"I  reckon  you're  right  about  that,  Joy." 

"Of  course  I'm  right.  You  have  to  meet  your  friends 
halfway." 

"Well,  if  you  talk  to  him  don't  hurt  his  feelin's." 

There  was  a  glint  of  mirth  in  her  eyes,  almost  of 
friendly  malice.  "I'm  going  to  worry  him  about  my 
feelings,  Dad.  He'll  not  have  time  to  think  of  his  own." 

Joyce  found  her  chance  next  day.  She  met  David 
Sanders  in  front  of  a  drug-store.  He  would  have  passed 
with  a  bow  if  she  had  let  him. 

"What  does  the  oil  expert  Mr.  Graham  sent  think 
about  our  property?"  she  asked  presently,  greetings 
having  been  exchanged. 

"He  hasn't  given  out  any  official  opinion  yet,  but 
he's  impressed.  The  report  will  be  favorable,  I  think." 

"Is  n't  that  good?" 

"Could  n't  be  better,"  he  admitted. 

It  was  a  warm  day.  Joyce  glanced  in  at  the  soda 
fountain  and  said  demurely,  "My,  but  it's  hot!  Won't 
you  come  in  and  have  an  ice-cream  soda  on  me?" 

Dave  flushed.  "If  you'll  go  as  my  guest,"  he  said 
stiffly. 

"How  good  of  you  to  invite  me!"  she  accepted,, 
laughing,  but  with  a  tint  of  warmer  color  in  her  cheeks. 


228  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Rhythmically  she  moved  beside  him  to  a  little  table  in 
the  corner  of  the  drug-store.  "I  own  stock  in  the  Jack- 
pot. You've  got  to  give  an  accounting  to  me.  Have 
you  found  a  market  yet?" 

"  The  whole  Southwest  will  be  our  market  as  soon  as 
we  can  reach  it." 

"And  when  will  that  be?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  having  some  hauled  to  relieve  the  glut.  The 
railroad  will  be  operating  inside  of  six  weeks.  We'll  keep 
Number  Three  capped  till  then  and  go  on  drilling  in 
other  locations.  Burns  is  spudding  in  a  new  well  to-day." 

The  clerk  took  their  order  and  departed.  They  were 
quite  alone,  not  within  hearing  of  anybody.  Joyce  took 
her  fear  by  the  throat  and  plunged  in. 

"You  mad  at  me,  Mr.  Sanders?"  she  asked  jauntily. 

"You  know  I'm  not." 

"How  do  I  know  it?"  she  asked  innocently.  "You 
say  as  little  to  me  as  you  can,  and  get  away  from  me 
as  quick  as  you  can.  Yesterday,  for  instance,  you  'd 
hardly  say  'Good-morning."1 

"I  did  n't  mean  to  be  rude.  I  was  busy."  Dave  felt 
acutely  uncomfortable.  "I'm  sorry  if  I  didn't  seem 
sociable." 

"So  was  Mr.  Hart  busy,  but  he  had  time  to  stop  and 
say  a  pleasant  word."  The  brown  eyes  challenged  their 
vis-a-vis  steadily. 

The  young  man  found  nothing  to  say.  He  could  not 
explain  that  he  had  not  lingered  because  he  was  giving 
Bob  a  chance  to  see  her  alone,  nor  could  he  tell  her  that 
he  felt  it  better  for  his  peace  of  mind  to  keep  away  from 
her  as  much  as  possible. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  229 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  inviting  young  men  to  invite 
me  to  take  a  soda,  Mr.  Sanders,"  she  went  on.  "This  is 
my  first  offense.  I  never  did  it  before,  and  I  never  ex- 
pect to  again.  ...  I  do  hope  the  new  well  will  come  in  a 
good  one."  The  last  sentence  was  for  the  benefit  of  the 
clerk  returning  with  the  ice-cream. 

"Looks  good,"  said  Dave,  playing  up.  "Smut's 
showing,  and  you  know  that's  a  first-class  sign." 

"Bob  said  it  was  expected  in  to-day  or  to-morrow. 
...  I  asked  you  because  I've  something  to  say  to  you, 
something  I  think  one  of  your  friends  ought  to  say,  and 
—  and  I'm  going  to  do  it,"  she  concluded  in  a  voice 
modulated  just  to  reach  him. 

The  clerk  had  left  the  glasses  and  the  check.  He  was 
back  at  the  fountain  polishing  the  counter. 

Sanders  waited  in  silence.  He  had  learned  to  let  the 
burden  of  conversation  rest  on  his  opponent,  and  he 
knew  that  Joyce  just  now  was  in  that  class. 

She  hesitated,  uncertain  of  her  opening.  Then, 
"You're  disappointing  your  friends,  Mr.  Sanders,"  she 
said  lightly. 

He  did  not  know  what  an  effort  it  took  to  keep  her 
voice  from  quavering,  her  hand  from  trembling  as  it 
rested  on  the  onyx  top  of  the  table. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  a  second  time. 

"Perhaps  it's  our  fault.  Perhaps  we  haven't  been 
.  .  .  friendly  enough."  The  lifted  eyes  went  straight 
into  his. 

He  found  an  answer  unexpectedly  difficult.  "No 
man  ever  had  more  generous  friends,"  he  said  at  last 
brusquely,  his  face  set  hard. 


230  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

The  girl  guessed  at  the  tense  feeling  back  of  his 
words. 

"Let's  walk/'  she  replied,  and  he  noticed  that  the 
eyes  and  mouth  had  softened  to  a  tender  smile.  "I 
can't  talk  here,  Dave." 

They  made  a  pretense  of  finishing  their  sodas,  then 
walked  out  of  the  town  into  the  golden  autumn  sunlight 
of  the  foothills.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  She  carried  her- 
self buoyantly,  chin  up,  her  face  a  flushed  cameo  of 
loveliness.  As  she  took  the  uphill  trail  a  small  breath  of 
wind  wrapped  the  white  skirt  about  her  slender  limbs. 
He  found  in  her  a  new  note,  one  of  unaccustomed  shy- 
ness. 

The  silence  grew  at  last  too  significant.  She  was 
driven  to  break  it. 

"I  suppose  I'm  foolish,"  she  began  haltingly.  "But  I 
had  been  expecting  —  all  of  us  had  —  that  when  you 
came  home  from  —  from  Denver  —  the  first  time,  I 
mean  —  you  would  be  the  old  Dave  Sanders  we  all 
knew  and  liked.  We  wanted  our  friendship  to  —  to 
help  make  up  to  you  for  what  you  must  have  suffered. 
We  did  n't  think  you'd  hold  us  off  like  this." 

His  eyes  narrowed.  He  looked  away  at  the  cedars  on 
the  hills  painted  in  lustrous  blues  and  greens  and  pur- 
ples, and  at  the  slopes  below  burnt  to  exquisite  color 
lights  by  the  fires  of  fall.  But  what  he  saw  was  a  gray 
prison  wall  with  armed  men  in  the  towers. 

"  If  I  could  tell  you ! "  He  said  it  in  a  whisper,  to  him- 
self, but  she  just  caught  the  words. 

"Won't  you  try?"  she  said,  ever  so  gently. 

He  could  not  sully  her  innocence  by  telling  of  the  fur- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  231 

'  tive  whisperings  that  had  fouled  the  prison  life,  made  of 
!  it  an  experience  degrading  and  corrosive.  He  told  her, 
instead,  of  the  externals  of  that  existence,  of  how  he  had 
risen,  dressed,  eaten,  worked,  exercised,  and  slept  under 
orders.  He  described  to  her  the  cells,  four  by  seven  by 
seven,  barred,  built  in  tiers,  faced  by  narrow  iron  bal- 
conies, each  containing  a  stool,  a  chair,  a  shelf,  a  bunk. 
In  his  effort  to  show  her  the  chasm  that  separated  him 
from  her  he  did  not  spare  himself  at  all.  Dryly  and  in 
clean-cut  strokes  he  showed  her  the  sordidness  of  which 
he  had  been  the  victim  and  left  her  to  judge  for  herself 
of  its  evil  effect  on  his  character. 

When  he  had  finished  he  knew  that  he  had  failed. 
She  wept  for  pity  and  murmured,  "  You  poor  boy.  .  .  . 
You  poor  boy!" 

He  tried  again,  and  this  time  he  drew  the  moral. 
"Don't  you  see,  I'm  a  marked  man  —  marked  for  life." 
He  hesitated,  then  pushed  on.  "You're  fine  and  clean 
and  generous  —  what  a  good  father  and  mother,  and  all 
this  have  made  you."  He  swept  his  hand  round  in  a 
wide  gesture  to  include  the  sun  and  the  hills  and  all  the 
brave  life  of  the  open.  "If  I  come  too  near  you,  don't 
you  see  I  taint  you?  I'm  a  man  who  was  shut  up  be- 
cause — " 

"Fiddlesticks!  You're  a  man  who  has  been  done  a 
wrong.  You  must  n't  grow  morbid  over  it.  After  all, 
you've  been  found  innocent." 

"That  is  n't  what  counts.  I've  been  in  the  peniten- 
tiary. Nothing  can  wipe  that  out.  The  stain  of  it 's  on 
me  and  can't  be  washed  away." 

She  turned  on  him  with  a  little  burst  of  feminine  fe- 


232  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

rocity.  "How  dare  you  talk  that  way,  Dave  Sanders! 
I  want  to  be  proud  of  you.  We  all  do.  But  how  can  we 
be  if  you  give  up  like  a  quitter?  Don't  we  all  have  to 
keep  beginning  our  lives  over  and  over  again?  Are  n't 
we  all  forever  getting  into  trouble  and  getting  out  of  it? 
A  man  is  as  good  as  he  makes  himself.  It  does  n't  mat- 
ter what  outside  thing  has  happened  to  him.  Do  you 
dare  tell  me  that  my  dad  would  n't  be  worth  loving  if 
he'd  been  in  prison  forty  times ?"g 

The  color  crept  into  his  face.  "I'm  not  quitting.  I'm 
going  through.  The  point  is  whether  I'm  to  ask  my 
friends  to  carry  my  load  for  me." 

"What  are  your  friends  for?"  she  demanded,  and  her 
eyes  were  like  stars  in  a  field  of  snow.  "Don't  you  see 
it's  an  insult  to  assume  they  don't  want  to  stand  with 
you  in  your  trouble?  You've  been  warped.  You're 
eaten  up  with  vain  pride."  Joyce  bit  her  lip  to  choke 
back  a  swelling  in  her  throat.  "The  Dave  we  used  to 
know  was  n't  like  that.  He  was  friendly  and  sweet. 
When  folks  were  kind  to  him  he  was  kind  to  them.  He 
was  n't  like  —  like  an  old  poker."  She  fell  back  help- 
lessly on  the  simile  she  had  used  with  her  father. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  that  way,"  he  said 
gently.  "When  I  first  came  out  I  did  think  I'd  play  a 
lone  hand.  I  was  hard  and  bitter  and  defiant.  But 
when  I  met  you-all  again  —  and  found  you  were  just 
like  home  folks  —  all  of  you  so  kind  and  good,  far  be- 
yond any  claims  I  had  on  you  —  why,  Miss  Joyce,  my 
heart  went  out  to  my  old  friends  with  a  rush.  It 
sure  did.  Maybe  I  had  to  be  stiff  to  keep  from  being 
mushy." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  233 

"Oh,  if  that's  it!"  Her  eager  face,  flushed  and  ten- 
der, nodded  approval. 

"But  you've  got  to  look  at  this  my  way  too,"  he 
urged.  "I  can't  repay  your  father's  kindness  —  yes, 
and  yours  too  —  by  letting  folks  couple  your  name, 
even  in  friendship,  with  a  man  who  - 

She  turned  on  him,  glowing  with  color.  "Now  that's 
absurd,  Dave  Sanders.  I  'm  not  a  —  a  nice  little  china 
doll.  I'm  a  flesh-and-blood  girl.  And  I'm  not  a  statue 
on  a  pedestal.  I've  got  to  live  just  like  other  people. 
The  trouble  with  you  is  that  you  want  to  be  generous, 
but  you  don't  want  to  give  other  folks  a  chance  to  be. 
Let 's  stop  this  foolishness  and  be  sure-enough  friends  — 
Dave." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand  in  his  brown  palm, 
smiling  down  at  her.  "All  right.  I  know  when  I'm 
beaten." 

She  beamed.  "That's  the  first  honest- to-goodness 
smile  I've  seen  on  your  face  since  you  came  back." 

"I've  got  millions  of  'em  in  my  system,"  he  prom- 
ised. "I've  been  hoarding  them  up  for  years." 

"Don't  hoard  them  any  more.  Spend  them,"  she  urged. 

"I'll  take  that  prescription,  Doctor  Joyce."  And  he 
spent  one  as  evidence  of  good  faith. 

The  soft  and  shining  oval  of  her  face  rippled  with 
gladness  as  a  mountain  lake  sparkles  with  sunshine  in  a 
light  summer  breeze.  "I've  found  again  that  Dave  boy 
I  lost,"  she  told  him. 

"You  won't  lose  him  again,"  he  answered,  pushing 
into  the  hinterland  of  his  mind  the  reflection  that  a  man 
cannot  change  the  color  of  his  thinking  in  an  hour. 


234  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

"We  thought  he'd  gone  away  for  good.  I'm  so  glad 
lie  has  n't." 

"No.  He's  been  here  all  the  time,  but  he's  been 
obeying  the  orders  of  a  man  who  told  him  he  had  no 
business  to  be  alive." 

He  looked  at  her  with  deep,  inscrutable  eyes.    As  a 
boy  he  had  been  shy  but  impulsive.    The  fires  of  dis- 
cipline had  given  him  remarkable  self-restraint.     She 
could  not  tell  he  was  finding  in  her  face  the  quality  to 
inspire  in  a  painter  a  great  picture,  the  expression  off 
that  brave  young  faith  which  made  her  a  touchstone  to  > 
find  the  gold  in  his  soul. 

Yet  in  his  gravity  was  something  that  disturbed  Jier 
blood.  Was  she  fanning  to  flame  banked  fires  better 
dormant? 

She  felt  a  compunction  for  what  she  had  done. 
Maybe  she  had  been  unwomanly.  It  is  a  penalty  impul- 
sive people  have  to  pay  that  later  they  must  consider 
whether  they  have  been  bold  and  presumptuous.  Her 
spirits  began  to  droop  when  she  should  logically  have 
been  celebrating  her  success. 

But  Dave  walked  on  mountain- tops  tipped  with  mel- 
low gold.  He  threw  off  the  weight  that  had  oppressed 
his  spirits  for  years  and  was  for  the  hour  a  boy  again. 
She  had  exorcised  the  gloom  in  which  he  walked.  He 
looked  down  on  a  magnificent  flaming  desert,  and  it  was 
good.  To-day  was  his.  To-morrow  was  his.  All  the  to- 
morrows of  the  world  were  in  his  hand.  He  refused  to 
analyze  the  causes  of  his  joy.  It  was  enough  that  beside 
him  moved  with  charming  diffidence  the  woman  of  his 
dreams,  that  with  her  soft  hands  she  had  torn  down  the 
barrier  between  them. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  235 

"And  now  I  don't  know  whether  I've  done  right," 
she  said  ruefully.  "Dad  warned  me  I'd  better  be  care- 
ful. But  of  course  I  always  know  best.  I 'rush  in." 

"You've  done  me  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  good.  I 
needed  some  good  friend  to  tell  me  just  what  you  have. 
Please  don't  regret  it." 

"Well,  I  won't."  She  added,  in  a  hesitant  murmur, 
"You  won't  —  misunderstand?" 

His  look  turned  aside  the  long-lashed  eyes  and 
i  brought  a  faint  flush  of  pink  to  her  cheeks. 

"No,  I'll  not  do  that,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DAVE  BECOMES  AN  OFFICE  MAN 

FROM  Graham  came  a  wire  a  week  after  the  return  of 
the  oil  expert  to  Denver.   It  read: 

Report  satisfactory.  Can  you  come  at  once  and  arrange 
with  me  plan  of  organization? 

Sanders  was  on  the  next  train.  He  was  still  much 
needed  at  Malapi  to  look  after  getting  supplies  and  ma- 
chinery and  to  arrange  for  a  wagon  train  of  oil  teams, 
but  he  dropped  or  delegated  this  work  for  the  more  im- 
portant call  that  had  just  come. 

His  contact  with  Graham  uncovered  a  new  side  of  the 
state  builder,  one  that  was  to  impress  him  in  all  the  big 
business  men  he  met.  They  might  be  pleasant  socially 
and  bear  him  a  friendly  good- will,  but  when  they  met  to 
arrange  details  of  a  financial  plan  they  always  wanted 
their  pound  of  flesh.  Graham  drove  a  hard  bargain  with 
him.  He  tied  the  company  fast  by  legal  control  of  its 
affairs  until  his  debt  was  satisfied.  He  exacted  a  bonus 
in  the  form  of  stock  that  fairly  took  the  breath  of  the 
young  man  with  whom  he  was  negotiating.  Dave 
fought  him  round  by  round  and  found  the  great  man 
smooth  and  impervious  as  polished  agate. 

Yet  Dave  liked  him.  When  they  met  at  lunch,  as 
they  did  more  than  once,  the  grizzled  Westerner  who  had 
driven  a  line  of  steel  across  almost  impassable  moun- 
tain passes  was  simple  and  frank  in  talk.  He  had  taken 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  237 

a  fancy  to  this  young  fellow,  and  he  let  him  know  it. 
Perhaps  he  found  something  of  his  own  engaging, 
dogged  youth  in  the  strong-jawed  range-rider. 

''Does  a  financier  always  hogtie  a  proposition  before 
he  backs  it?"  Dave  asked  him  once  with  a  sardonic 
gleam  in  his  eye. 

"Always." 

"No  matter  how  much  he  trusts  the  people  he's  doing 
business  with?" 

"He  binds  them  hard  and  fast  just  the  same.  It's  the 
only  way  to  do.  Give  away  as  much  money  as  you 
want  to,  but  when  you  loan  money  look  after  your  se- 
curity like  a  hawk." 

"Even  when  you  're  dealing  with  friends?  " 
,    "Especially  when  you're  dealing  with  friends,"  cor- 
rected the  older  man.   "Otherwise  you're  likely  not  to 
have  your  friends  long." 

"Don't  believe  I  want  to  be  a  financier,"  decided 
Sanders. 

"It  takes  the  hot  blood  out  of  you,"  admitted  Gra- 
ham. "I'm  not  sure,  if  I  had  my  life  to  live  over  again, 
knowing  what  I  know  now,  that  I  would  n't  choose  the 
outdoors  like  West  and  Crawford." 

Sanders  was  very  sure  which  choice  he  would  like  to 
make.  He  was  at  present  embarked  on  the  business  of 
making  money  through  oil,  but  some  day  he  meant  to 
go  back  to  the  serenity  of  a  ranch.  There  were  times 
when  he  left  the  conferences  with  Graham  or  his  lieu- 
tenants sick  at  heart  because  of  the  uphill  battle  he 
must  fight  to  protect  his  associates. 

From  Denver  he  went  East  to  negotiate  for  some  oil 


238  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

tanks  and  material  with  which  to  construct  reservoirs. 
His  trip  was  a  flying  one.  He  entrained  for  Malapi  once 
more  to  look  after  the  loose  ends  that  had  been  accumu- 
lating locally  in  his  absence.  A  road  had  to  be  built 
across  the  desert.  Contracts  must  be  let  for  hauling  away 
the  crude  oil.  A  hundred  details  waited  his  attention. 

He  worked  day  and  night.  Often  he  slept  only  a  few 
hours.  He  grew  lean  in  body  and  curt  of  speech.  Lines 
came  into  his  face  that  had  not  been  there  before.  But 
at  his  work  apparently  he  was  tireless  as  steel  springs. 

Meanwhile  Brad  Steelman  moled  to  undermine  the 
company.  Dave's  men  finished  building  a  bridge  across 
a  gulch  late  one  day.  It  was  blown  up  into  kindling 
wood  by  dynamite  that  night.  Wagons  broke  down  un- 
expectedly. Shipments  of  supplies  failed  to  arrive.  En- 
gines were  mysteriously  smashed. 

The  sabotage  was  skillful.  Steelman's  agents  left  no 
evidence  that  could  be  used  against  them.  More  than 
one  of  them,  Hart  and  Sanders  agreed,  were  spies  who 
had  found  employment  with  the  Jackpot.  One  or  two 
men  were  discharged  on  suspicion,  even  though  com- 
plete evidence  against  them  was  lacking. 

The  responsibility  that  had  been  thrust  on  Dave 
brought  out  in  him  unsuspected  business  capacity. 
During  his  prison  days  there  had  developed  in  him  a 
quality  of  leadership.  He  had  been  more  than  once  in 
charge  of  a  road-building  gang  of  convicts  and  had 
found  that  men  naturally  turned  to  him  for  guidance. 
But  not  until  Crawford  shifted  to  his  shoulders  the  bur- 
dens of  the  Jackpot  did  he  know  that  he  had  it  in  him  to 
grapple  with  organization  on  a  fairly  large  scale. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  239 

He  worked  without  nerves,  day  in,  day  out,  concen- 
trating in  a  way  that  brought  results.  He  never  let  him- 
self get  impatient  with  details.  Thoroughness  had  long 
since  become  the  habit  of  his  life.  To  this  he  added  a 
sane  common  sense. 

Jackpot  Number  Four  came  in  a  good  well,  though 
not  a  phenomenal  one  like  its  predecessor.  Number 
Five  was  already  halfway  down  to  the  sands.  Mean- 
while the  railroad  crept  nearer.  Malapi  was  already 
talking  of  its  big  celebration  when  the  first  engine 
should  come  to  town.  Its  council  had  voted  to  change 
the  name  of  the  place  to  Bonanza. 

The  tide  was  turning  against  Steelman.  He  was  still  a 
very  rich  man,  but  he  seemed  no  longer  to  be  a  lucky 
one.  He  brought  in  a  dry  well.  On  another  location  the 
cable  had  pulled  out  of  the  socket  and  a  forty-foot  auger 
stem  and  bit  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  hole  fifteen  hundred 
feet  deep.  His  best  producer  was  beginning  to  cough  a 
weak  and  intermittent  flow  even  under  steady  pump- 
ing. And,  to  add  to  his  troubles,  a  quiet  little  man  had 
dropped  into  town  to  investigate  one  of  his  companies. 
He  was  a  Government  agent,  and  the  rumor  was  that  he 
was  gathering  evidence. 

Sanders  met  Thomas  on  the  street.  He  had  not  seen 
him  since  the  prospector  had  made  his  wild  ride  for 
safety  with  the  two  outlaws  hard  on  his  heels. 

"Glad  you  made  it,  Mr.  Thomas,"  said  Dave. 
"Good  bit  of  strategy.  When  they  reached  the  notch, 
Shorty  and  Doble  never  once  looked  to  see  if  we  were 
around.  They  lit  out  after  you  on  the  jump.  Did  they 
come  close  to  getting  you?" 


240  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"It  looked  like  bullets  would  be  flyin5.  I  won't  say 
who  would  'a'  got  who  if  they  had,"  he  said  modestly. 
"But  I  was  n't  lookin'  for  no  trouble.  I  don't  aim  to  be 
one  of  these  here  fire-eaters,  but  I  '11  fight  like  a  wildcat 
when  I  got  to."  The  prospector  looked  defiantly  at 
Sanders,  bristling  like  a  bantam  which  has  been  chal- 
lenged. 

"We  certainly  owe  you  something  for  the  way  you 
drew  the  outlaws  off  our  trail,"  Dave  said  gravely. 

"Say,  have  you  heard  how  the  Government  is  gettin' 
after  Steelman?  He's  a  wily  bird,,  old  Brad  is,  but  he 
slipped  up  when  he  sent  out  his  advertisin'  for  the 
Great  Mogul.  A  photographer  faked  a  gusher  for  him 
and  they  sent  it  out  on  the  circulars." 

Sanders  nodded,  without  comment. 

"Steelman  can  make  'em  flow,  on  paper  anyhow," 
Thomas  chortled.  "But  he's  sure  in  a  kettle  of  hot 
water  this  time." 

"Mr.  Steelman  is  enterprising," Dave  admitted  dryly. 

"Say,  Mr.  Sanders,  have  you  heard  what's  become  of 
Shorty  and  Doble?"  the  prospector  asked,  lapsing  to 
ill-concealed  anxiety.  "I  see  the  sheriff  has  got  a  hand- 
bill out  offerin'  a  reward  for  their  arrest  and  conviction. 
You  don't  reckon  those  fellows  would  bear  me  any 
grudge,  do  you?" 

"No.  But  I  wouldn't  travel  in  the  hills  alone  if  I 
were  you.  If  you  happened  to  meet  them  they  might 
make  things  unpleasant." 

"  They  're  both  killers.  I  'm  a  peaceable  citizen,  as  the 
f eTlow  says.  O'  course  if  they  crowd  me  to  the  wall  —  " 

"They  won't,"  Dave  assured  him. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  241 

He  knew  that  the  outlaws,  if  the  chance  ever  came  for 
them,  would  strike  at  higher  game  than  Thomas.  They 
would  try  to  get  either  Crawford  or  Sanders  himself. 
The  treasurer  of  the  Jackpot  did  not  fool  himself  with 
any  false  promises  of  safety.  The  two  men  in  the  hills 
were  desperate  characters,  game  as  any  in  the  country, 
gun-fighters,  and  they  owed  both  him  and  Crawford  a 
debt  they  would  spare  no  pains  to  settle  in  full.  Some 
day  there  would  come  an  hour  of  accounting. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
ON  THE  DODGE 

UP  in  the  hills  back  of  Bear  Canon  two  men  were  camp- 
ing. They  breakfasted  on  slow  elk,  coffee,  and  flour-and- 
water  biscuits.  When  they  had  finished,  they  washed 
their  tin  dishes  with  sand  in  the  running  brook. 

"Might's  well  be  hittin'  the  trail,"  one  growled. 

The  other  nodded  without  speaking,  rose  lazily,  and 
began  to  pack  the  camp  outfit.  Presently,  when  he  had 
arranged  the  load  to  his  satisfaction,  he  threw  the  dia- 
mond hitch  and  stood  back  to  take  a  chew  of  tobacco 
while  he  surveyed  his  work.  He  was  a  squat,  heavy-set 
man  with  a  Chihuahua  hat.  Also  he  was  a  two-gun  man. 
After  a  moment  he  circled  an  arrowweed  thicket  and 
moved  into  the  chaparral  where  his  horse  was  hob- 
bled. 

The  man  who  had  spoken  rose  with  one  lithe  twist  of 
his  big  body.  His  eyes,  hard  and  narrow,  watched  the 
shorter  man  disappear  in  the  brush.  Then  he  turned 
swiftly  and  strode  toward  the  shoulder  of  the  ridge. 

In  the  heavy  undergrowth  of  dry  weeds  and  grass  he 
stopped  and  tested  the  wind  with  a  bandanna  handker- 
chief. The  breeze  was  steady  and  fairly  strong.  It  blew 
down  the  canon  toward  the  foothills  beyond. 

The  man  stripped  from  a  scrub  oak  a  handful  of 
leaves.  They  were  very  brittle  and  crumbled  in  his 
hand.  A  match  flared  out.  His  palm  cupped  it  for  a 
moment  to  steady  the  blaze  before  he  touched  it  to  the 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  243 

crisp  foliage.  Into  a  nest  of  twigs  he  thrust  the  small 
flame.  The  twigs,  dry  as  powder  from  a  four-months' 
drought,  crackled  like  miniature  fireworks.  The  grass 
caught,  and  a  small  line  of  fire  ran  quickly  out. 

The  man  rose.  On  his  brown  face  was  an  evil  smile,  in 
his  hard  eyes  something  malevolent  and  sinister.  The 
wind  would  do  the  rest. 

He  walked  back  toward  the  camp.  At  the  shoulder 
crest  he  turned  to  look  back.  From  out  of  the  chaparral 
a  thin  column  of  pale  gray  smoke  was  rising. 

His  companion  stamped  out  the  remains  of  the  break- 
fast fire  and  threw  dirt  on  the  ashes  to  make  sure  no  live 
ember  could  escape  in  the  wind.  Then  he  swung  to  the 
saddle. 

"Ready,  Dug?"  he  asked. 

The  big  man  growled  an  assent  and  followed  him  over 
the  summit  into  the  valley  beyond. 

"Country  needs  a  rain  bad,"  the  man  in  the  Chihua- 
hua hat  commented.  "Don't  know  as  I  recollect  a 
dryer  season." 

The  big  hawk-nosed  man  by  his  side  cackled  in  his 
throat  with  short,  splenetic  mirth.  "It'll  be  some  dryer 
before  the  rains,"  he  prophesied. 

They  climbed  out  of  the  valley  to  the  rim.  The  short 
man  was  bringing  up  the  rear  along  the  narrow  trail- 
ribbon.  He  turned  in  the  saddle  to  look  back,  a  hand  on 
his  horse's  rump.  Perhaps  he  did  this  because  of  the 
power  of  suggestion.  Several  times  Doble  had  already 
swung  his  head  to  scan  with  a  searching  gaze  the  other 
side  of  the  valley. 

Mackerel  clouds  were  floating  near  the  horizon  in  a 


244  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

sky  of  blue.  Was  that  or  was  it  not  smoke  just  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill? 

"  Cayn't  be  our  camp-fire,"  the  squat  man  said  aloud. 
"I  smothered  that  proper." 

"Them's  clouds,"  pronounced  Doble  quickly. 
"Clouds  an'  some  mist  risin'  from  the  gulch." 

"I  reckon,"  agreed  the  other,  with  no  sure  conviction. 
Doble  must  be  right,  of  course.  No  fire  had  been  in  evi- 
dence when  they  left  the  camping-ground,  and  he  was 
sure  he  had  stamped  out  the  one  that  had  cooked  the 
biscuits.  Yet  that  stringy  gray  film  certainly  looked 
like  smoke.  He  hung  in  the  wind,  half  of  a  mind  to  go 
back  and  make  sure.  Fire  in  the  chaparral  now  might 
do  untold  damage. 

Shorty  looked  at  Doble.   "If  tha's  fire,  Dug  — " 

"It  ain't.  No  chance,"  snapped  the  ex-foreman. 
"We'll  travel  if  you  don't  feel  called  on  to  go  back  an' 
stomp  out  the  mist,  Shorty,"  he  added  with  sarcasm. 

The  cowpuncher  took  the  trail  again.  Like  many 
men,  he  was  not  proof  against  a  sneer.  Dug  was  proba- 
bly right,  Shorty  decided,  and  he  did  not  want  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself.  Doble  would  ride  him  with  heavy 
jeers  all  day. 

An  hour  later  they  rested  their  horses  on  the  divide. 
To  the  west  lay  Malapi  and  the  plains.  Eastward  were 
the  heaven-pricking  peaks.  A  long,  bright  line  zig- 
zagged across  the  desert  and  reflected  the  sun  rays.  It 
was  the  bed  of  the  new  road  already  spiked  with  shining 
rails. 

"I'm  goin'  to  town,"  announced  Doble. 

Shorty  looked  at  him  in  surprise.   "Wanta  see  yore 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  245 

picture,  I  reckon.  It's  on  a  heap  of  telegraph  poles,  I 
been  told,"  he  said,  grinning. 

"To-day,"  went  on  the  ex-foreman  stubbornly. 

"Big,  raw-boned  guy,  hook  nose,  leather  face,  never 
took  no  prize  as  a  lady's  man,  a  wildcat  in  a  rough- 
house,  an'  sudden  death  on  the  draw,"  extemporized  the 
rustler,  presumably  from  his  conception  of  the  reward 
poster. 

"I'll  lie  in  the  chaparral  till  night  an'  ride  in  after 
dark." 

With  the  impulsiveness  of  his  kind,  Shorty  fell  in 
with  the  idea.  He  was  hungry  for  the  fleshpots  of  Mal- 
api.  If  they  dropped  in  late  at  night,  stayed  a  few  hours, 
and  kept  under  cover,  they  could  probably  slip  out  of 
town  undetected.  The  recklessness  of  his  nature  found 
an  appeal  in  the  danger. 

"Damfidon't  trail  along,  Dug." 

"Yore  say-so  about  that." 

"Like  to  see  my  own  picture  on  the  poles.  Sawed-off 
liT  runt.  Straight  black  hair.  Some  bowlegged.  Wears 
two  guns  real  low.  Doncha  monkey  w^ith  him  onless 
you're  hell-a-mile  with  a  six-shooter.  One  thousand 
dollars  reward  for  arrest  and  conviction.  Same  for  the 
big  guy." 

"Fellow  that  gets  one  o'  them  rewards  will  earn  it," 
said  Doble  grimly. 

"Goes  double,"  agreed  Shorty.  "He'll  earn  it  even  if 
he  don't  live  to  spend  it.  Which  he's  liable  not  to." 

They  headed  their  horses  to  the  west.  As  they  drew 
down  from  the  mountains  they  left  the  trail  and  took  to 
the  brush.  They  wound  in  and  out  among  the  mesquite 


246  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

and  the  cactus,  bearing  gradually  to  the  north  and  into 
the  foothills  above  the  town.  When  they  reached  Frio 
Canon  they  swung  off  into  a  timbered  pocket  debouch- 
ing from  it.  Here  they  unsaddled  and  lay  down  to  wait 
for  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
A  PLEASANT  EVENING 

BRAD  STEELMAN  sat  hunched  before  a  fire  of  pifion 
knots,  head  drooped  low  between  his  high,  narrow 
shoulders.  The  restless  black  eyes  in  the  dark  hatchet 
face  were  sunk  deeper  now  than  in  the  old  days.  In 
them  was  beginning  to  come  the  hunted  look  of  the  gray 
wolf  he  resembled.  His  nerves  were  not  what  they  had 
been,  and  even  in  his  youth  they  were  not  of  the  best. 
He  had  a  way  of  looking  back  furtively  over  his  shoul- 
der, as  though  some  sinister  shadow  were  creeping 
toward  him  out  of  the  darkness. 

Three  taps  on  the  window  brought  his  head  up  with  a 
jerk.  His  lax  fingers  crept  to  the  butt  of  a  Colt's  revol- 
ver. He  waited,  listening. 

The  taps  were  repeated. 

Steelman  sidled  to  the  door  and  opened  it  cautiously. 
A  man  pushed  in  and  closed  the  door.  He  looked  at  the 
sheepman  and  he  laughed  shortly  in  an  ugly,  jeering  way. 

"Scared,  Brad?" 

The  host  moistened  his  lips.   "What  of,  Dug?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  said  the  big  man  scornfully.  "You 
always  had  about  as  much  sand  in  yore  craw  as  a  rab- 
bit." 

"Did  you  come  here  to  make  trouble,  Dug?" 

"No,  I  came  to  collect  a  bill." 

"So?  Didn't  know  I  owed  you  any  money  right 
now.  How  much  is  it?" 


248  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Steelman,  as  the  leader  of  his  gang,  was  used  to  levies 
upon  his  purse  when  his  followers  had  gone  broke.  He 
judged  that  he  would  have  to  let  Doble  have  about 
twenty-five  dollars  now. 

"A  thousand  dollars." 

Brad  shot  a  quick,  sidelong  look  at  him.  "Wha's 
wrong  now,  Dug?" 

The  ex-foreman  of  the  D  Bar  Lazy  R  took  his  time  to 
answer.  He  enjoyed  the  suspense  under  which  his  ally 
was  held.  "Why,  I  reckon  nothin'  a- tall.  Only  that 
this  mo'nin'  I  put  a  match  to  about  a  coupla  hundred 
thousand  dollars  belongin'  to  Crawford,  Sanders,  and 
Hart." 

Eagerly  Steelman  clutched  his  arm.  "You  did  it, 
then?" 

"Didn't  I  say  I'd  do  it?"  snapped  Doble  irritably. 
"D'ya  ever  know  me  rue  back  on  a  bargain?" 

"Never." 

"Wha's  more,  you  never  will.  I  fired  the  chaparral 
above  Bear  Canon.  The  wind  was  right.  Inside  of 
twenty-four  hours  the  Jackpot  locations  will  go  up  in 
smoke.  Derricks,  pumps,  shacks,  an'  oil;  the  whole 
caboodle's  doomed  sure  as  I'm  a  foot  high." 

The  face  of  the  older  man  looked  more  wolfish  than 
ever.  He  rubbed  his  hands  together,  washing  one  over 
the  other  so  that  each  in  turn  was  massaged.  "Hell's 
bells!  I'm  sure  glad  to  hear  it.  Fire  got  a  good  start, 
you  say?" 

"I  tell  you  the  whole  country '11  go  up  like  powder." 

If  Steelman  had  not  just  reached  Malapi  from  a  visit 
to  one  of  his  sheep  camps  he  would  have  known,  what 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  249 

everybody  else  in  town  knew  by  this  time,  that  the 
range  for  fifty  miles  was  in  danger  and  that  hundreds  of 
volunteers  were  out  fighting  the  menace. 

His  eyes  glistened.  "  I  '11  not  wear  mournin'  none  if 
it  does  just  that." 

"I'm  tellin'  you  what  it'll  do,"  Doble  insisted 
dogmatically. 

"Shorty  with  you?" 

"He  was,  an'  he  wasn't.  I  did  it  while  he  wasn't 
lookin'.  He  was  saddlin'  his  horse  in  the  brush.  Don't 
make  any  breaks  to  him.  Shorty's  got  a  soft  spot  in 
him.  Game  enough,  but  with  queer  notions.  Some 
time  I'm  liable  to  have  to  -  '  Doble  left  his  sentence 
suspended  in  air,  but  Steelman,  looking  into  his  bleak 
eyes,  knew  what  the  man  meant. 

"What's  wrong  with  him  now,  Dug?" 

"Well,  he's  been  wrong  ever  since  I  had  to  bump  off 
Tim  Harrigan.  Talks  about  a  fair  break.  As  if  I  had  a 
chance  to  let  the  old  man  get  to  a  gun.  No,  I'm  not  so 
awful  sure  of  Shorty." 

"Better  watch  him.  If  you  see  him  make  any  false 
moves  —  " 

Doble  watched  him  with  a  taunting,  scornful  eye. 
"What '11 1  do?" 

The  other  man's  gaze  fell.  "Why,  you  got  to  protect 
yoreself,  Dug,  ain't  you?" 

"How?" 

The  narrow  shoulders  lifted.  For  a  moment  the  small 
black  eyes  met  those  of  the  big  man. 

"Whatever  way  seems  best  to  you,  Dug,"  murmured 
Steelman  evasively. 


250  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

* 

Doble  slapped  his  dusty  hat  against  his  thigh.  He 
laughed,  without  mirth  or  geniality.  "If  you  don't  beat 
Old  Nick,  Brad.  I  wonder  was  you  ever  out  an'  out 
straightforward  in  yore  life.  Just  once?" 

"I  don't  reckon  you  sure  enough  feel  that  way,  Dug," 
whined  the  older  man  ingratiatingly.  "Far  as  that  goes, 
I'm  not  making  any  claims  that  I  love  my  enemies. 
But  you  can't  say  I  throw  off  on  my  friends.  You 
always  know  where  I'm  at." 

"Sure  I  know,"  retorted  Doble  bluntly.  "You're  on 
the  inside  of  a  heap  of  rotten  deals.  So  am  I.  But  I 
admit  it  and  you  wonV 

"Well,  I  don't  look  at  it  that  way,  but  there's  no  use 
arguin'.  What  about  that  fire?  Sure  it  got  a  good  start?" 

"I  looked  back  from  across  the  valley.  It  was  trav- 
elin'  good." 

"If  the  wind  don't  change,  it  will  sure  do  a  lot  of 
damage  to  the  Jackpot.  Liable  to  spoil  some  of  Craw- 
ford's range  too." 

"I'll  take  that  thousand  in  cash,  Brad,"  the  big  man 
said,  letting  himself  down  into  the  easiest  chair  he  could 
find  and  rolling  a  cigarette. 

"Soon  as  I  know  it  did  the  work,  Dug." 

"I'm  here  tellin'  you  it  will  make  a  clean-up." 

"We'll  know  by  mornin'.  I  have  n't  got  the  money 
with  me  anyhow.  It's  in  the  bank." 

"Get  it  soon  as  you  can.  I  expect  to  light  out  again 
pronto.  This  town's  onhealthy  for  me." 

"Where  will  you  stay?"  asked  Brad. 

"With  my  friend  Steelman,"  jeered  Doble.  "His  in- 
vitation is  so  hearty  I  just  can't  refuse  him." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  251 

"You'd  be  safer  somewhere  else,"  said  the  owner  of 
the  house  after  a  pause. 

"We'll  risk  that,  me  'n'  you  both,  for  if  I'm  taken 
it 's  liable  to  be  bad  luck  for  you  too.  .  .  .  Gimme  some- 
thing  to  eat  and  drink." 

Steelman  found  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  glass,  then 
foraged  for  food  in  the  kitchen.  He  returned  with  the 
shank  of  a  ham  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  His  fear  was  ill- 
disguised.  The  presence  of  the  outlaw,  if  discovered, 
would  bring  him  trouble;  and  Doble  was  so  unruly  he 
might  out  of  sheer  ennui  or  bravado  let  it  be  known  he 
was  there. 

"I'll  get  you  the  money  first  thing  in  the  mornm'," 
promised  Steelman. 

Doble  poured  himself  a  large  drink  and  took  it  at  a 
swallow.  "I  would,  Brad." 

"No  use  you  puttin'  yoreself  in  unnecessary  danger." 

"  Or  you.  Don't  hand  me  my  hat,  Brad.  I  '11  go  when 
I'm  ready." 

Doble  drank  steadily  throughout  the  night.  He  was 
the  kind  of  drinker  that  can  take  an  incredible  amount 
of  liquor  without  becoming  helpless.  He  remained 
steady  on  his  feet,  growing  uglier  and  more  reckless 
every  hour. 

Tied  to  Doble  because  he  dared  not  break  away  from 
him,  Steelman's  busy  brain  began  to  plot  a  way  to  take 
advantage  of  this  man's  weakness  for  liquor.  He  sat 
across  the  table  from  him  and  adroitly  stirred  up  his 
hatred  of  Crawford  and  Sanders.  He  raked  up  every 
grudge  his  guest  had  against  the  two  men,  calling  to  his 
mind  how  they  had  beaten  him  at  every  turn. 


252  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"O'  course  I  know,  Dug,  you're  a  better  man  than 
Sanders  or  Crawford  either,  but  Malapi  don't  know 
it  —  yet.  Down  at  the  Gusher  I  hear  they  laugh  about 
that  trick  he  played  on  you  blowin'  up  the  dam.  Luck, 
I  call  it,  but  —  " 

"Laugh,  do  they?"  growled  the  big  man  savagely. 
"I'd  like  to  hear  some  o'  that  laughin'." 

"Say  this  Sanders  is  a  wonder;  that  nobody's  got  a 
chance  against  him.  That's  the  talk  goin'  round.  I 
said  any  day  in  the  week  you  had  him  beat  a  mile,  and 
they  gave  me  the  laugh." 

"I'll  show  'em!"  cried  the  enraged  bully  with  a 
furious  oath. 

"I'll  bet  you  do.  No  man  livin'  can  make  a  fool  outa 
Dug  Doble,  rustle  the  evidence  to  send  him  to  the  pen, 
snap  his  fingers  at  him,  and  on  top  o'  that  steal  his  girl. 
That's  what  I  told  — " 

Doble  leaned  across  the  table  and  caught  in  his  great 
fist  the  wrist  of  Steelman.  His  bloodshot  eyes  glared 
into  those  of  the  man  opposite.  "What  girl?"  he  de- 
manded hoarsely. 

Steelman  looked  blandly  innocent.  "Didn't  you 
know,  Dug?  Maybe  I  ought  n't  to  'a'  mentioned  it." 

Fingers  like  ropes  of  steel  tightened  on  the  wrist. 
Brad  screamed. 

"Don't  do  that,  Dug!  You're  killin'  me!  Ouch! 
Em  Crawford's  girl." 

"What  about  her  and  Sanders?" 

"Why,  he's  courtin'  her  —  treatin'  her  to  ice-cream, 
goin'  walkin'  with  her.  Did  n't  you  know?" 

"When  did  he  begin?"  Doble  slammed  a  hamlike 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 

fist  on  the  table.    "Spit  it  out,  or  I'll  tear  yore  ai 
off." 

Steelman  told  all  he  knew  and  a  good  deal  more.  He 
invented  details  calculated  to  infuriate  his  confederate, 
to  inflame  his  jealousy.  The  big  man  sat  with  jaw 
clamped,  the  muscles  knotted  like  ropes  on  his  leathery 
face.  He  was  a  volcano  of  outraged  vanity  and  furious 
hate,  seething  with  fires  ready  to  erupt. 

"Some  folks  say  it's  Hart  she's  engaged  to,"  purred 
the  hatchet-faced  tempter.  "Maybeso.  Looks  to  me 
like  she 's  thro  win'  down  Hart  for  this  convict.  Expect 
she  sees  he's  gonna  be  a  big  man  some  day." 

"Big  man!  Who  says  so?"  exploded  Doble. 

"That's  the  word,  Dug.  I  reckon  you've  heard  how 
the  Governor  of  Colorado  pardoned  him.  This  town's 
crazy  about  Sanders.  Claims  he  was  framed  for  the 
penitentiary.  Right  now  he  could  be  elected  to  any 
office  he  went  after."  Steelman's  restless  black  eyes 
watched  furtively  the  effect  of  his  taunting  on  this  man, 
a  victim  of  wild  and  uncurbed  passions.  He  was  egging 
him  on  to  a  rage  that  would  throw  away  all  caution  and 
all  scruples. 

"He'll  never  live  to  run  for  office!"  the  cattleman 
cried  hoarsely. 

"They  talk  him  for  sheriff.  Say  Applegate  9s  no  good 
—  too  easy-going.  Say  Sanders  '11  round  up  you  an' 
Shorty  pronto  when  he's  given  authority." 

Doble  ripped  out  a  wild  and  explosive  oath.  He  knew 
this  man  was  playing  on  his  vanity,  jealousy,  and  hatred 
for  some  purpose  not  yet  apparent,  but  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  close  his  mind  to  the  whisperings  of  the 


GUNSIGHT  PASS 

plotter.  He  welcomed  the  spur  of  Steelman's  two- 
edged  tongue  because  he  wanted  to  have  his  purpose  of 
vengeance  fed. 

"Sanders  never  saw  the  day  he  could  take  me,  dead 
or  alive.  I'll  meet  him  any  time,  any  way,  an'  when  I 
turn  my  back  on  him  he'll  be  ready  for  the  coroner." 

"I  believe  you,  Dug.  No  need  to  tell  me  you're  not 
afraid  of  him,  for  — 

"Afraid  of  him!"  bellowed  Doble,  eyes  like  live  coals. 
"Say  that  again  an'  I'll  twist  yore  head  off." 

Steelman  did  not  say  it  again.  He  pushed  the  bottle 
toward  his  guest  and  said  other  things. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
FIRE  IN  THE  CHAPARRAL 

A  CARPENTER  working  on  the  roof  of  a  derrick  for  Jack- 
pot Number  Six  called  down  to  his  mates: 

"Fire  in  the  hills,  looks  like.   I  see  smoke." 

The  contractor  was  an  old-timer.  He  knew  the  danger 
of  fire  in  the  chaparral  at  this  season  of  the  year. 

"Run  over  to  Number  Four  and  tell  Crawford,"  he 
said  to  his  small  son. 

Crawford  and  Hart  had  just  driven  out  from  town. 

"I'll  shag  up  the  tower  and  have  a  look,"  the  younger 
man  said. 

He  had  with  him  no  field-glasses,  but  his  eyes  were 
trained  to  long-distance  work.  Years  in  the  saddle  on 
the  range  had  made  him  an  expert  at  reading  such 
news  as  the  landscape  had  written  on  it. 

"Fire  in  Bear  Canon!"  he  shouted  down.  "Quite  a 
bit  of  smoke  risin'," 

"I'll  ride  right  up  and  look  it  over,"  the  cattleman 
called  back.  "Better  get  a  gang  together  to  fight  it, 
Bob.  Hike  up  soon  as  you're  ready." 

Crawford  borrowed  without  permission  of  the  owner 
the  nearest  saddle  horse  and  put  it  to  a  lope.  Five 
minutes  might  make  all  the  difference  between  a  win- 
ning and  a  losing  fight. 

From  the  tower  Hart  descended  swiftly.  He  gathered 
together  all  the  carpenters,  drillers,  enginemen,  and 
tool  dressers  in  the  vicinity  and  equipped  them  with 


£56  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

shovels,  picks,  brush-hooks,  saws,  and  axes.  To  each 
one  he  gave  also  a  gunnysack. 

The  foot  party  followed  Crawford  into  the  chaparral, 
making  for  the  hills  that  led  to  Bear  Canon.  A  wind 
was  stirring,  and  as  they  topped  a  rise  it  struck  hot  on 
their  cheeks.  A  flake  of  ash  fell  on  Bob's  hand. 

Crawford  met  them  at  the  mouth  of  the  canon. 

"She's  rip-r'arin',  Bob!  Got  too  big  a  start  to  beat 
out.  We'll  clear  a  fire-break  where  the  gulch  narrows 
just  above  here  and  do  our  fightin'  there." 

The  sparks  of  a  thousand  rockets,  flung  high  by  the 
wind,  were  swept  down  the  gulch  toward  them.  Be- 
hind these  came  a  curtain  of  black  smoke. 

The  cattleman  set  his  crew  to  work  clearing  a  wide 
trail  across  the  gorge  from  wall  to  wall.  The  under- 
growth was  heavy,  and  the  men  attacked  with  brush- 
hooks,  shovels,  and  axes.  One  man,  with  a  wet  gunny- 
sack,  was  detailed  to  see  that  no  flying  sparks  started  a 
new  blaze  below  the  safety  zone.  The  shovelers  and 
grubbers  cleared  the  grass  and  roots  off  to  the  dirt  for 
a  belt  of  twenty  feet.  They  banked  the  loose  dirt  at  the 
lower  edge  to  catch  flying  firebrands.  Meanwhile  the 
breath  of  the  furnace  grew  to  a  steady  heat  on  their 
faces.  Flame  spurts  had  leaped  forward  to  a  grove  of 
small  alders  and  almost  in  a  minute  the  branches  were 
crackling  like  fireworks. 

"  I  '11  scout  round  overthe  hill  and  have  a  look  above," 
Bob  said.  "We've  got  to  keep  it  from  spreading  out  of 
the  gulch." 

"Take  the  horse,"  Crawford  called  to  him. 

One  good  thing  was  that  the  fire  was  coming  down 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  257 

the  canon.  A  downhill  blaze  moves  less  rapidly  than 
one  running  up. 

Runners  of  flame,  crawling  like  snakes  among  the 
brush,  struck  out  at  the  fighters  venomously  and  tried 
to  leap  the  trench.  The  defenders  flailed  at  these  with 
the  wet  gunnysacks. 

The  wind  was  stiffer  now  and  the  fury  of  the  fire 
closer.  The  flames  roared  down  the  canon  like  a  blast 
furnace.  Driven  back  by  the  intense  heat,  the  men  re- 
treated across  the  break  and  clung  to  their  line.  Al- 
ready their  lungs  were  sore  from  inhaling  smoke  and 
their  throats  were  inflamed.  A  pine,  its  pitchy  trunk 
ablaze,  crashed  down  across  the  fire-trail  and  caught  in 
the  fork  of  a  tree  beyond.  Instantly  the  foliage  leaped 
to  red  flame. 

Crawford,  axe  in  hand,  began  to  chop  the  trunk  and 
a  big  Swede  swung  an  axe  powerfully  on  the  opposite 
side.  The  rest  of  the  crew  continued  to  beat  down  the 
fires  that  started  below  the  break.  The  chips  flew  at 
each  rhythmic  stroke  of  the  keen  blades.  Presently  the 
tree  crashed  down  into  the  trail  that  had  been  hewn.  It 
served  as  a  conductor,  and  along  it  tongues  of  fire 
leaped  into  the  brush  beyond.  Glowing  branches,  flung 
by  the  wind  and  hurled  from  falling  timber,  buried 
themselves  in  the  dry  undergrowth.  Before  one  blaze 
was  crushed  half  a  dozen  others  started  in  its  place. 
Flails  and  gunnysacks  beat  these  down  and  smothered 
them. 

Bob  galloped  into  the  canon  and  flung  himself  from 
the  horse  as  he  pulled  it  up  in  its  stride. 

"She's  jumpin'  outa  the  gulch  above.    Too  late  to 


258  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

head  her  off.  We  better  get  scrapers  up  and  run  a  trail 
along  the  top  o'  the  ridge,  don't  you  reckon?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  son,"  agreed  Crawford.  "We  can  just  about 
hold  her  here.  It'll  be  hours  before  I  can  spare  a  man 
for  the  ridge.  We  got  to  get  help  in  a  hurry.  You  ride 
to  town  and  rustle  men.  Bring  out  plenty  of  dynamite 
and  gunnysacks.  Lucky  we  got  the  tools  out  here  we 
brought  to  build  the  sump  holes." 

"Betcha!  We'll  need  a  lot  o'  grub,  too." 

The  cattleman  nodded  agreement.  "And  coffee. 
Cayn't  have  too  much  coffee.  It's  food  and  drink  and 
helps  keep  the  men  awake." 

"I '11  remember." 

"And  for  the  love  o'  Heaven,  don't  forget  canteens! 
Get  every  canteen  in  town.  Cayn't  have  my  men  run- 
nin'  around  with  their  tongues  hangin'  out.  Better 
bring  out  a  bunch  of  broncs  to  pack  supplies  around. 
It's  goin'  to  be  one  man-sized  contract  runnin'  the 
commissary." 

The  canon  above  them  was  by  this  time  a  sea  of  fire, 
the  most  terrifying  sight  Bob  had  ever  looked  upon. 
Monster  flames  leaped  at  the  walls  of  the  gulch,  swept 
in  an  eyebeat  over  draws,  attacked  with  a  savage  roar 
the  dry  vegetation.  The  noise  wras  like  the  crash  of 
mountains  meeting.  Thunder  could  scarce  have  made 
itself  heard. 

Rocks,  loosened  by  the  heat,  tore  down  the  steep 
incline  of  the  walls,  sometimes  singly,  sometimes  in 
slides.  These  hit  the  bed  of  the  ravine  with  the  force 
of  a  cannon-ball.  The  workers  had  to  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  these. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  259 

A  man  near  Bob  was  standing  with  his  weight  on  the 
shovel  he  had  been  using.  Hart  gave  a  shout  of  warn- 
ing. At  the  same  moment  a  large  rock  struck  the  handle 
and  snapped  it  off  as  though  it  had  been  kindling  wood. 
The  man  wrung  his  hands  and  almost  wept  with  the 
pain. 

A  cottontail  ran  squealing  past  them,  driven  from  its 
home  by  this  new  and  deadly  enemy.  Not  far  away  a 
rattlesnake  slid  across  the  hot  rocks.  Their  common 
fear  of  man  was  lost  in  a  greater  and  more  immediate 
one. 

Hart  did  not  like  to  leave  the  battle-field.  "Lemme 
stay  here.  You  can  handle  that  end  of  the  job  better 'n 
me,  Mr.  Crawford." 

The  old  cattleman,  his  face  streaked  with  black, 
looked  at  him  from  bloodshot  eyes.  "Where  do  you  get 
that  notion  I'll  quit  a  job  I've  started,  son?  You  hit 
the  trail.  The  sooner  the  quicker." 

The  young  man  wasted  no  more  words.  He  swung  to 
the  saddle  and  rode  for  town  faster  than  he  had  ever 
traveled  in  all  his  hard-riding  days. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

FIGHTING  FIRE 

SANDEKS  was  in  the  office  of  the  Jackpot  Company 
looking  over  some  blue-prints  when  Joyce  Crawford 
came  in  and  inquired  where  her  father  was. 

"He  went  out  with  Bob  Hart  to  the  oil  field  this 
morning.  Some  trouble  with  the  casing." 

"Thought  Dad  was  n't  giving  any  of  his  time  to  oil 
these  days,"  she  said.  "He  told  me  you  and  Bob  were 
running  the  company." 

"Every  once  in  a  while  he  takes  an  interest.  I  prod 
him  up  to  go  out  and  look  things  over  occasionally. 
He's  president  of  the  company,  and  I  tell  him  he  ought 
to  know  what's  going  on.  So  to-day  he's  out  there." 

"Oh!"  Miss  Joyce,  having  learned  what  she  had 
come  in  to  find  out,  might  reasonably  have  departed. 
She  declined  a  chair,  said  she  must  be  going,  yet  did 
not  go.  Her  eyes  appeared  to  study  without  seeing  a 
field  map  on  the  desk.  "Dad  told  me  something  last 
night,  Mr.  Sanders.  He  said  I  might  pass  it  on  to  you 
and  Bob,  though  it  is  n't  to  go  farther.  It 's  about  that 
ten  thousand  dollars  he  paid  the  bank  when  it  called 
his  loan.  He  got  the  money  from  Buck  Byington." 

"Buck! "  exclaimed  the  young  man.  He  was  thinking 
that  the  Buck  he  used  to  know  never  had  ten  dollars 
saved,  let  alone  ten  thousand. 

"I  know,"  she  explained.  "That's  it.  The  money 
was  n't  his.  He's  executor  or  something  for  the  children 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  261 

of  his  dead  brother.  This  money  had  come  in  from  the 
sale  of  a  farm  back  in  Iowa  and  he  was  waiting  for  an 
order  of  the  court  for  permission  to  invest  it  in  a  mort- 
gage. When  he  heard  Dad  was  so  desperately  hard  up 
for  cash  he  let  him  have  the  money.  He  knew  Dad 
would  pay  it  back,  but  it  seems  what  he  did  was  against 
the  law,  even  though  Dad  gave  him  his  note  and  a 
chattel  mortgage  on  some  cattle  which  Buck  was  n't  to 
record.  Now  it  has  been  straightened  out.  That's  why 
Dad  could  n't  tell  where  he  got  the  money.  Buck  would 
have  been  in  trouble." 

"I  see." 

"But  now  it's  all  right."  Joyce  changed  the  subject. 
There  were  teasing  pinpoints  of  mischief  in  her  eyes. 
"My  school  physiology  used  to  say  that  sleep  was  rest- 
ful. It  builds  up  worn-out  tissue  and  all.  One  of  these 
nights,  when  you  can  find  time,  give  it  a  trial  and  see 
whether  that's  true." 

Dave  laughed.  The  mother  in  this  young  woman 
would  persistently  out.  "I  get  plenty  of  sleep,  Miss 
Joyce.  Most  people  sleep  too  much." 

"How  much  do  you  sleep?" 

"Sometimes  more,  sometimes  less.  I  average  six  or 
seven  hours,  maybe." 

"Maybe,"  she  scoffed. 

"Hard  work  doesn't  hurt  men.  Not  when  they're 
young  and  strong." 

"I  hear  you're  trying  to  work  yourself  to  death,  sir," 
the  girl  charged,  smiling. 

"Not  so  bad  as  that."  He  answered  her  smile  with 
another,  for  no  reason  except  that  the  world  was  a  sun- 


262  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

shiny  one  when  he  looked  at  this  trim  and  dainty 
young  woman.  "The  work  gets  fascinating.  A  fellow 
likes  to  get  things  done.  There's  a  satisfaction  in  turn- 
ing out  a  full  day  and  in  feeling  you  get  results." 

She  nodded  sagely,  in  a  brisk,  businesslike  way.  "I 
know.  Felt  it  myself  often,  but  we  have  to  remember 
that  there  are  other  days  and  other  people  to  lend  a 
hand.  None  of  us  can  do  it  all.  Dad  thinks  you  overdo. 
So  he  told  me  to  ask  you  to  supper  for  to-morrow  night. 
Bob  will  be  there  too." 

".I  say  thanks,  Miss  Joyce,  to  your  father  and  his 
daughter." 

"Which  means  you'll  be  with  us  to-morrow." 

"I'll  be  with  you." 

But  he  was  not.  Even  as  he  made  the  promise  a 
shadow  darkened  the  doorsill  and  Bob  Hart  stepped 
into  the  office. 

His  first  words  were  ominous,  but  before  he  spoke 
both  of  those  looking  at  him  knew  he  was  the  bearer  of 
bad  news.  There  was  in  his  boyish  face  an  unwonted 
gravity. 

"Fire  in  the  chaparral,  Dave,  and  going  strong." 

Sanders  spoke  one  word.   "Where?" 

"Started  in  Bear  Canon,  but  it's  jumped  out  into 
the  hills." 

"The  wind  must  be  driving  it  down  toward  the  Jack- 
pot!" 

"Yep.  Like  a  scared  rabbit.  Crawford's  trying  to 
hold  the  mouth  of  the  canon.  He's  got  a  man's  job 
down  there.  Can't  spare  a  soul  to  keep  it  from  scootin' 
over  the  hills." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  263 

Dave  rose.  "I'll  gather  a  bunch  of  men  and  ride 
right  out.  On  what  side  of  the  canon  is  the  fire  run- 
ning?" 

"East  side.  Stop  at  the  wells  and  get  tools.  I  got  to 
rustle  dynamite  and  men.  Be  out  soon  as  I  can." 

They  spoke  quietly,  quickly,  decisively,  as  men  of 
action  do  in  a  crisis. 

Joyce  guessed  the  situation  was  a  desperate  one.  "Is 
Dad  in  danger?"  she  asked. 

Hart  answered.   "No  —  not  now,  anyhow." 

"What  can  I  do  to  help?" 

"We'll  have  hundreds  of  men  in  the  field  probably,  if 
this  fire  has  a  real  start,"  Dave  told  her.  "We'll  need 
food  and  coffee  —  lots  of  it.  Organize  the  women. 
Make  meat  sandwiches  —  hundreds  of  them.  And  send 
out  to  the  Jackpot  dozens  of  coffee-pots.  Your  job  is  to 
keep  the  workers  well  fed.  Better  send  out  bandages 
and  salve,  in  case  some  get  burnt." 

Her  eyes  were  shining.  "I'll  see  to  all  that.  Don't 
worry,  boys.  You  fight  this  fire,  and  we  women  will 
'tend  to  feeding  you." 

Dave  nodded  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  During  the 
fierce  and  dreadful  days  that  followed  one  memory 
more  than  once  came  to  him  in  the  fury  of  the  battle. 
It  was  of  a  slim,  straight  girl  looking  at  him,  the  call  to 
service  stamped  on  her  brave,  uplifted  face. 

Sanders  was  on  the  road  inside  of  twenty  minutes,  a 
group  of  horsemen  galloping  at  his  heels.  At  the  Jack- 
pot locations  the  fire-fighters  equipped  themselves  with 
shovels,  sacks,  axes,  and  brush-hooks.  The  party,  still 
on  horseback,  rode  up  to  the  mouth  of  Bear  Canon. 


1 


264  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Through  the  smoke  the  sun  was  blood-red.  The  air  was 
heavy  and  heated. 

From  the  fire  line  Crawford  came  to  meet  these  new 
allies.  "We're  holdin'  her  here.  It's  been  nip  an'  tuck. 
Once  I  thought  sure  she'd  break  through,  but  we  beat 
out  the  blaze.  I  had  n't  time  to  go  look,  but  I  expect 
she's  just  a-r'arin'  over  the  hills.  I've  had  some  teams 
and  scrapers  taken  up  there,  Dave.  It's  yore  job.  Go 
to  it." 

The  old  cattleman  showed  that  he  had  been  through 
a  fight.  His  eyes  were  red  and  inflamed,  his  face 
streaked  with  black,  one  arm  of  his  shirt  half  torn  from 
the  shoulder.  But  he  wore  the  grim  look  of  a  man  who 
has  just  begun  to  set  himself  for  a  struggle. 

The  horsemen  swung  to  the  east  and  rode  up  to  the 
mesa  which  lies  between  Bear  and  Cattle  Canons.  It 
was  impossible  to  get  near  Bear,  since  the  imprisoned 
fury  had  burst  from  its  walls  and  was  sweeping  the 
chaparral.  The  line  of  fire  was  running  along  the  level 
in  an  irregular,  ragged  front,  red  tongues  leaping  ahead 
with  short,  furious  rushes. 

Even  before  he  could  spend  time  to  determine  the 
extent  of  the  fire,  Dave  selected  his  line  of  defense,  a 
ridge  of  rocky,  higher  ground  cutting  across  from  one 
gulch  to  the  other.  Here  he  set  teams  to  work  scraping 
a  fire-break,  while  men  assisted  with  shovels  and  brush- 
hooks  to  clear  a  wide  path. 

Dave  swung  still  farther  east  and  rode  along  the  edge 
of  Cattle  Canon.  Narrow  and  rock-lined,  the  gorge  was 
like  a  boiler  flue  to  suck  the  flames  down  it.  From  where 
he  sat  he  saw  it  raging  with  inconceivable  fury.  The 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  265 

earth  rift  seemed  to  be  roofed  with  flame.  Great  bil- 
lows of  black  smoke  poured  out  laden  with  sparks  and 
live  coals  carried  by  the  wind.  It  was  plain  at  the  first 
glance  that  the  fire  was  bound  to  leap  from  the  canon  to 
the  brush-covered  hills  beyond.  His  business  now  was 
to  hold  the  ridge  he  had  chosen  and  fight  back  the 
flames  to  keep  them  from  pouring  down  upon  the  Jack- 
pot property.  Later  the  battle  would  have  to  be  fought 
to  hold  the  line  at  San  Jacinto  Canon  and  the  hills  run- 
ning down  from  it  to  the  plains. 

The  surface  fire  on  the  hills  licked  up  the  brush, 
mesquite,  and  young  cedars  with  amazing  rapidity.  If 
his  trail-break  was  built  in  time,  Dave  meant  to  back- 
fire above  it.  Steve  Russell  was  one  of  his  party. 
Sanders  appointed  him  lieutenant  and  went  over  the 
ground  with  him  to  decide  exactly  where  the  clearing 
should  run,  after  which  he  galloped  back  to  the  mouth 
of  Bear. 

" She's  running  wild  on  the  hills  and  in  Cattle 
Canon,"  Dave  told  Crawford.  "She '11  sure  jump  Cattle 
and  reach  San  Jacinto.  We '  ve  got  to  hold  the  mouth  of 
Cattle,  build  a  trail  between  Bear  and  Cattle,  another 
between  Cattle  and  San  Jacinto,  cork  her  up  in  San 
Jacinto,  and  keep  her  from  jumping  to  the  hills  beyond/5 

"Can  we  back-fire,  do  you  reckon?" 

"Not  with  the  wind  there  is  above,  unless  we  have 
check-trails  built  first.  We  need  several  hundred  more 
men,  and  we  need  them  right  away.  I  never  saw  such  a 
fire  before." 

"Well,  get  yore  trail  built.  Bob  oughtta  be  out  soon. 
I'll  put  him  over  between  Cattle  and  San  Jacinto. 


266  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Three-four  men  can  hold  her  here  now.  I'll  move  my 
outfit  over  to  the  mouth  of  Cattle." 

The  cattleman  spoke  crisply  and  decisively.  He  had 
been  fighting  fire  for  six  hours  without  a  moment's  rest, 
swallowing  smoke-filled  air,  enduring  the  blistering  heat 
that  poured  steadily  at  them  down  the  gorge.  At  least 
two  of  his  men  were  lying  down  completely  exhausted, 
but  he  contemplated  another  such  desperate  battle 
without  turning  a  hair.  All  his  days  he  had  been  a 
good  fighter,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  quit 
now. 

Sanders  rode  up  as  close  to  the  west  edge  of  Bear 
Canon  as  he  could  endure.  In  two  or  three  places  the 
flames  had  jumped  the  wall  and  were  trying  to  make 
headway  in  the  scant  underbrush  of  the  rocky  slope 
that  led  to  a  hogback  surmounted  by  a  bare  rimrock 
running  to  the  summit.  This  natural  barrier  would 
block  the  fire  on  the  west,  just  as  the  burnt-over  area 
would  protect  the  north.  For  the  present  at  least  the 
.  fire-fighters  could  confine  their  efforts  to  the  south  and 
east,  where  the  spread  of  the  blaze  would  involve  the 
Jackpot.  A  shift  in  the  wind  would  change  the  situa- 
tion, and  if  it  came  in  time  would  probably  save  the  oil 
property. 

Dave  put  his  horse  to  a  lope  and  rode  back  to  the 
trench  and  trail  his  men  were  building.  He  found  a 
shovel  and  joined  them. 

From  out  of  Cattle  Canon  billows  of  smoke  rolled 
across  the  hill  and  settled  into  a  black  blanket  above 
the  men.  This  was  acrid  from  the  resinous  pitch  of  the 
pines.  The  wind  caught  the  dark  pall,  drove  it  low,  and 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  267 

held  it  there  till  the  workers  could  hardly  breathe. 
The  sun  was  under  entire  eclipse  behind  the  smoke 
screen. 

The  heat  of  the  flames  tortured  Dave's  face  and 
hands,  just  as  the  smoke-filled  air  inflamed  his  nostrils 
and  throat.  Coals  of  fire  pelted  him  from  the  river 
of  flame,  carried  by  the  strong  breeze  blowing  down. 
From  the  canons  on  either  side  of  the  workers  came  a 
steady  roar  of  a  world  afire.  Occasionally,  at  some 
slight  shift  of  the  wind,  the  smoke  lifted  and  they  could 
see  the  moving  wall  of  fire  bearing  down  upon  them, 
wedges  of  it  far  ahead  of  the  main  line. 

The  movements  of  the  workers  became  automatic. 
The  teams  had  to  be  removed  because  the  horses  had 
become  unmanageable  under  the  torture  of  the  heat. 
When  any  one  spoke  it  was  in  a  hoarse  whisper  because 
of  a  swollen  larynx.  Mechanically  they  dug,  shoveled, 
grubbed,  handkerchiefs  over  their  faces  to  protect  from 
the  furnace  glow. 

A  deer  with  two  fawns  emerged  from  the  smoke  and 
flew  past  on  the  way  to  safety.  Mice,  snakes,  rabbits, 
birds,  and  other  desert  denizens  appeared  in  mad  flight. 
They  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  their  natural  foe, 
man.  The  terror  of  the  red  monster  at  their  heels  wholly 
obsessed  them. 

The  fire-break  was  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  wide. 
The  men  retreated  back  of  it,  driven  by  the  heat,  and 
fought  with  wet  sacks  to  hold  the  enemy.  A  flash  of 
lightning  was  hurled  against  Dave.  It  was  a  red-hot 
limb  of  a  pine,  tossed  out  of  the  gorge  by  the  stiff  wind. 
He  flung  it  from  him  and  tore  the  burning  shirt  from  his 


268  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

chest.    An  agony  of  pain  shot  through  his  shoulder, 
seared  for  half  a  foot  by  the  blazing  branch. 

He  had  no  time  to  attend  to  the  burn  then.  The  fire 
had  leaped  the  check-trail  at  a  dozen  points.  With  his 
men  he  tried  to  smother  the  flames  in  the  grass  by  using 
.  saddle  blankets  and  gunnysacks,  as  well  as  by  shovel- 
ing sand  upon  it.  Sometimes  they  cut  down  the  smoul- 
dering brush  and  flung  it  back  across  the  break  into  the 
inferno  on  the  other  side.  Blinded  and  strangling  from 
the  smoke,  the  fire-fighters  would  make  short  rushes 
into  the  clearer  air,  swallow  a  breath  or  two  of  it,  and 
plunge  once  more  into  the  line  to  do  battle  with  the 
foe. 

For  hours  the  desperate  battle  went  on.  Dave  lost 
count  ofrtime.  One  after  another  of  his  men  retreated  to 
rest.  After  a  time  they  drifted  back  to  help  make  the 
defense  good  against  the  plunging  fire  devil.  Sanders 
alone  refused  to  retire.  His  parched  eyebrows  were  half 
gone.  His  clothes  hung  about  him  in  shredded  rags.  He 
was  so  exhausted  that  he  could  hardly  wield  a  flail.  His 
legs  dragged  and  his  arms  hung  heavy.  But  he  would 
not  give  up  even  for  an  hour.  Through  the  confused, 
shifting  darkness  of  the  night  he  led  his  band,  silhou- ! 
etted  on  the  ridge  like  gnomes  of  the  nether  world,  to 
attack  after  attack  on  the  tireless,  creeping,  plunging 
flames  that  leaped  the  trench  in  a  hundred  desperate 
assaults,  that  howled  and  hissed  and  roared  like  raven- 
ous beasts  of  prey. 

Before  the  light  of  day  broke  he  knew  that  he  had 
won.  His  men  had  made  good  the  check-trail  that  held 
back  the  fire  in  the  terrain  between  Bear  and  Cattle 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  269 

Canons.    The  fire,  worn  out  and  beaten,  fell  back  for 
lack  of  fuel  upon  which  to  feed. 

Reinforcements  came  from  town.  Dave  left  the  trail 
in  charge  of  a  deputy  and  staggered  down  with  his  men 
to  the  camp  that  had  been  improvised  below.  He  sat 
down  with  them  and  swallowed  coffee  and  ate  sand- 
wiches. Steve  Russell  dressed  his  burn  with  salve  and 
bandages  sent  out  by  Joyce. 

"Me  for  the  hay,  Dave,"  the  cowpuncher  said  when 
he  had  finished.  He  stretched  himself  in  a  long,  tired, 
luxurious  yawn.  "I've  rid  out  a  blizzard  and  I've 
gathered  cattle  after  a  stampede  till  I  'most  thought  I  'd 
drop  outa  the  saddle.  But  I  give  it  to  this  here  liT  fire. 
It's  sure  enough  a  stem  winder.  I'm  beat.  So  long, 
pardner." 

Russell  went,  off  to  roll  himself  up  in  his  blanket. 

Dave  envied  him,  but  he  could  not  do  the  same.  His 
responsibilities  were  not  ended  yet.  He  found  his  horse 
in  the  remuda,  saddled,  and  rode  over  to  the  entrance  to 
Cattle  Canon. 

Emerson  Crawford  was  holding  his  ground,  though 
barely  holding  it.  He  too  was  grimy,  fire-blackened,  ex- 
hausted, but  he  was  still  fighting  to  throw  back  the  fire 
that  swept  down  the  canon  at  him. 

"How  are  things  up  above?"  he  asked  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Good.   We  held  the  check-line." 

"Same  here  so  far.  It 's  been  hell.  Several  of  my  boys 
fainted." 

"  I  '11  take  charge  awhile.  You  go  and  get  some  sleep/5 
urged  Sanders. 


270  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

The  cattleman  shook  his  head.  "No.  See  it  through. 
Say,  son,  look  who 's  here ! "  His  thumb  hitched  toward 
his  right  shoulder. 

Dave  looked  down  the  line  of  blackened,  grimy  fire- 
fighters and  his  eye  fell  on  Shorty.  He  was  still  wearing 
chaps,  but  his  Chihuahua  hat  had  succumbed  long  ago. 
Manifestly  the  man  had  been  on  the  fighting  line  for 
some  hours. 

"Does  n't  he  know  about  the  reward?" 

"Yes.  He  was  hidin'  in  Malapi  when  the  call  came 
for  men.  Says  he's  no  quitter,  whatever  else  he  is.  You 
bet  he  ain't.  He's  worth  two  of  most  men  at  this  work. 
Soon  as  we  get  through  he'll  be  on  the  dodge  again,  I 
reckon,  unless  Applegate  gets  him  first.  He's  a  good 
sport,  anyhow.  I'll  say  that  for  him." 

"I  reckon  I'm  a  bad  citizen,  sir,  but  I  hope  he  makes 
his  getaway  before  Applegate  shows  up." 

"Well,  he's  one  tough  scalawag,  but  I  don't  aim  to 
give  him  away  right  now.  Shorty  is  a  whole  lot  better 
proposition  than  Dug  Doble." 

Dave  came  back  to  the  order  of  the  day.  "What  do 
you  want  me  to  do  now?" 

The  cattleman  looked  him  over.  "You  damaged 
much?" 

"No." 

"Burnt  in  the  shoulder,  I  see." 

"Won't  keep  me  from  swinging  a  sack  and  bossing  a 
gang." 

"Wore  out,  I  reckon?" 

"I  feel  fine  since  breakfast  —  took  two  cups  of  strong 
coffee." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  271 

Again  Crawford's  eyes  traveled  over  his  ally.  They 
saw  a  ragged,  red-eyed  tramp,  face  and  hands  and  arms 
blackened  with  char  and  grimed  with  smoke.  Outside, 
he  was  such  a  specimen  of  humanity  as  the  police  would 
have  arrested  promptly  on  suspicion.  But  the  shrewd 
eyes  of  the  cattleman  saw  more  —  a  spirit  indomitable 
that  would  drive  the  weary,  tormented  body  till  it 
dropped  in  its  tracks,  a  quality  of  leadership  that  was  a 
trumpet  call  to  the  men  who  served  with  him,  a  soul 
master  of  its  infirmities.  His  heart  went  out  to  the 
young  fellow.  Wherefore  he  grinned  and  gave  him  an- 
other job.  Strong  men  to-day  were  at  a  premium  with 
Emerson  Crawford. 

"Ride  over  and  see  how  Bob's  comin'  out.  We'll 
make  it  here." 

Sanders  swung  to  the  saddle  and  moved  forward  to 
the  next  fire  front,  the  one  between  Cattle  and  San  Ja- 
cinto  Canons.  Hart  himself  was  not  here.  There  had 
come  a  call  for  help  from  the  man  in  charge  of  the  gang 
trying  to  hold  the  fire  in  San  Jacinto.  He  had  answered 
that  summons  long  before  daybreak  and  had  not  yet 
returned. 

The  situation  on  the  Cattle-San  Jacinto  front  was 
not  encouraging.  The  distance  to  be  protected  was 
nearly  a  mile.  Part  of  the  way  was  along  a  ridge  fairly 
easy  to  defend,  but  a  good  deal  of  it  lay  in  lower  land  of 
timber  and  heavy  brush. 

Dave  rode  along  the  front,  studying  the  contour  of 
the  country  and  the  chance  of  defending  it.  His  judg- 
ment was  that  it  could  not  be  done  with  the  men  on 
hand.  He  was  not  sure  that  the  line  could  be  held  even 


272  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

with  reinforcements.  But  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  try.  He  sent  a  man  to  Crawford,  urging  him  to  get 
help  to  him  as  soon  as  possible. 

Then  he  took  command  of  the  crew  already  in  the 
field,  rearranged  the  men  so  as  to  put  the  larger  part  of 
his  force  in  the  most  dangerous  locality,  and  in  default 
of  a  sack  seized  a  spreading  branch  as  a  flail  to  beat  out 
fire  in  the  high  grass  close  to  San  Jacinto. 

An  hour  later  half  a  dozen  straggling  men  reported  for 
duty.  Shorty  was  one  of  them. 

"The  ol'  man  cayn't  spare  any  more,"  the  rustler  exr 
plained.  "He  had  to  hustle  Steve  and  his  gang  outa 
their  blankets  to  go  help  Bob  Hart.  They  say  Hart 's  in 
a  heluva  bad  way.  The  fire 's  jumped  the  trail-check  and 
is  spreadin'  over  the  country.  He's  runnin'  another 
trail  farther  back." 

It  occurred  to  Dave  that  if  the  wind  changed  sud- 
denly and  heightened,  it  would  sweep  a  back-fire  round 
him  and  cut  off  the  retreat  of  his  crew.  He  sent  a  weary 
lad  back  to  keep  watch  on  it  and  report  any  change  of 
direction  in  that  vicinity. 

After  which  he  forgot  all  about  chances  of  danger 
from  the  rear.  His  hands  and  mind  were  more  than 
busy  trying  to  drive  back  the  snarling,  ravenous  beast 
in  front  of  him.  He  might  have  found  time  to  take 
other  precautions  if  he  had  known  that  the  exhausted 
boy  sent  to  watch  against  a  back-fire  had,  with  the  com- 
ing of  night,  fallen  asleep  in  a  draw. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

SHORTY  ASKS  A  QUESTION 

WHEN  Shorty  separated  from  Doble  in  Frio  Canon  he 
rode  inconspicuously  to  a  tendejon  where  he  could  be 
snugly  hidden  from  the  public  gaze  and  yet  meet  a  few 
"pals"  whom  he  could  trust  at  least  as  long  as  he  could 
keep  his  eyes  on  them.  His  intention  was  to  have  a  good 
time  in  the  only  way  he  knew  how.  Another  purpose 
was  coupled  with  this;  he  was  not  going  to  drink  enough 
to  interfere  with  reasonable  caution. 

Shorty's  dissipated  pleasures  were  interfered  with 
shortly  after  midnight.  A  Mexican  came  in  to  the 
drinking-place  with  news.  The  world  was  on  fire,  at 
least  that  part  of  it  which  interested  the  cattlemen  of 
the  Malapi  district.  The  blaze  had  started  back  of  Bear 
Canon  and  had  been  swept  by  the  wind  across  to  Cattle 
and  San  Jacinto.  The  oil  field  adjacent  had  been  licked 
up  and  every  reservoir  and  sump  was  in  flames.  The 
whole  range  would  probably  be  wiped  out  before  the  fire 
spent  itself  for  lack  of  fuel.  Crawford  had  posted  a  rider 
to  town  calling  for  more  man  power  to  build  trails  and 
wield  flails.  This  was  the  sum  of  the  news.  It  was  not 
strictly  accurate,  but  it  served  to  rouse  Shorty  at  once. 

He  rose  and  touched  the  Mexican  on  the  arm. 
"Where  you  say  that  fire  started,  Pedro?" 

"Bear  Canon,  senor." 

"And  it's  crossed  San  Jacinto?" 

"Like  wildfire."    The  slim  vaquero  made  a  gesture 


274  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

all-inclusive.  "It  runs,  senor,  like  a  frightened  jack- 
rabbit.  Nothing  will  stop  it  —  nothing.  It  iss  sent  by 
heaven  for  a  punishment." 

"Hmp!"  Shorty  grunted. 

The  rustler  fell  into  a  somber  silence.  He  drank  no 
more.  The  dark-lashed  eyes  of  the  Mexican  girls 
slanted  his  way  in  vain.  He  stared  sullenly  at  the  table 
in  front  of  him.  A  problem  had  pushed  itself  into  his 
consciousness,  one  he  could  not  brush  aside  or  ignore. 

If  the  fire  had  started  back  of  Bear  Canon,  what 
agency  had  set  it  going?  He  and  Doble  had  camped  last 
night  at  that  very  spot.  If  there  had  been  a  fire  there 
during  the  night  he  must  have  known  it.  Then  when 
had  the  fire  started?  And  how?  They  had  seen  the 
faint  smoke  of  it  as  they  rode  away,  the  filmy  smoke  of  a 
young  fire  not  yet  under  much  headway.  Was  it  reason- 
able to  suppose  that  some  one  else  had  been  camping 
close  to  them?  This  was  possible,  but  not  likely.  For 
they  would  probably  have  seen  signs  of  the  other  eve- 
ning camp-fire. 

Eliminating  this  possibility,  there  remained  —  Dug 
Doble.  Had  Dug  fired  the  brush  while  his  companion 
was  saddling  for  the  start?  The  more  Shorty  considered 
this  possibility,  the  greater  force  it  acquired  in  his  mind. 
Dug's  hatred  of  Crawford,  Hart,  and  especially  Sanders 
would  be  satiated  in  part  at  least  if  he  could  wipe  their 
oil  bonanza  from  the  map.  The  wind  had  been  right. 
Doble  was  no  fool.  He  knew  that  if  the  fire  ran  wild  in 
the  chaparral  only  a  miracle  could  save  the  Jackpot 
reservoirs  and  plant  from  destruction. 

Other  evidence  accumulated.     Cryptic  remarks  of 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  275' 

Doble  made  during  the  day.  His  anxiety  to  see  Steelman 
immediately.  A  certain  manner  of  ill-repressed  triumph 
whenever  he  mentioned  Sanders  or  Crawford.  These 
bolstered  Shorty's  growing  opinion  that  the  man  had 
deliberately  fired  the  chaparral  from  a  spirit  of  revenge. 

Shorty  was  an  outlaw  and  a  bad  man.  He  had  killed, 
and  might  at  any  time  kill  again.  To  save  the  Jackpot 
from  destruction  he  would  not  have  made  a  turn  of  the 
hand.  But  Shorty  was  a  cattleman.  He  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  saddle  and  had  known  the  whine  of 
the  lariat  and  the  dust  of  the  drag  drive  all  his  days. 
Every  man  has  his  code.  Three  things  stood  out  in  that 
of  Shorty.  He  was  loyal  to  the  hand  that  paid  him,  he 
stood  by  his  pals,  and  he  believed  in  and  after  his  own 
fashion  loved  cattle  and  the  life  of  which  they  were  the 
central  fact.  To  destroy  the  range  feed  wantonly  was 
a  crime  so  nefarious  that  he  could  not  believe  Doble 
guilty  of  it.  And  yet  — 

He  could  not  let  the  matter  lie  in  doubt.  He  left  the 
tendejon  and  rode  to  Steelman's  house.  Before  entering 
he  examined  carefully  both  of  his  long-barreled  forty- 
fives.  He  made  sure  that  the  six-shooters  were  in  per- 
fect order  and  that  they  rested  free  in  the  holsters. 
That  sixth  sense  acquired  by  "bad  men,"  by  means  of 
which  they  sniff  danger  when  it  is  close,  was  telling  him 
that  smoke  would  rise  before  he  left  the  house. 

He  stepped  to  the  porch  and  knocked.  There  came  a 
moment's  silence,  a  low-pitched  murmur  of  whispering 
voices  carried  through  an  open  window,  the  shuffling  of 
feet.  The  door  was  opened  by  Brad  Steelman.  He  was 
alone  in  the  room. 


276  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Where's  Dug?"  asked  Shorty  bluntly. 

"Why,  Dug  —  why,  he's  here,  Shorty.  Did  n't  know 
it  was  you.  'Lowed  it  might  be  some  one  else.  So  he 
stepped  into  another  room." 

The  short  eowpuncher  walked  in  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  facing  the 
other  door  of  the  room. 

"Did  you  hire  Dug  to  fire  the  chaparral?"  he  asked, 
his  voice  ominously  quiet. 

A  flicker  of  fear  shot  to  the  eyes  of  the  oil  promoter. 
He  recognized  signs  of  peril  and  his  heart  was  drenched 
with  an  icy  chill.  Shorty  was  going  to  turn  on  him,  had 
become  a  menace. 

"I  —  I  dunno  what  you  mean,"  he  quavered.  "I'll 
call  Dug  if  you  wanta  see  him."  He  began  to  shuffle 
toward  the  inner  room. 

"Hold  yore  hawsses,  Brad.  I  asked  you  a  question." 
The  cold  eyes  of  the  gunman  bored  into  those  of  the 
other  man.  "Howcome  you  to  hire  Dug  to  burn  the 
range?" 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  the  older  man 
whined.  "I  got  sheep,  ain't  I?  Would  n't  be  reasonable 
I'd  destroy  their  feed.  No,  you  got  a  wrong  notion 
about  — " 

"Yore  sheep  ain't  on  the  south  slope  range."  Shorty's 
mind  had  moved  forward  one  notch  toward  certainty. 
Steelman's  manner  was  that  of  a  man  dodging  the  issue. 
It  carried  no  conviction  of  innocence.  "How  much  you 
payin'  him?" 

The  door  of  the  inner  room  opened.  Dug  Doble's  big 
frame  filled  the  entrance.  The  eyes  of  the  two  gunmen 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  277 

searched  each  other.  Those  of  Doble  asked  a  question. 
Had  it  come  to  a  showdown?  Steelman  sidled  over  to 
the  desk  where  he  worked  and  sat  down  in  front  of  it. 
His  right  hand  dropped  into  an  open  drawer,  apparently 
carelessly  and  without  intent. 

Shorty  knew  at  once  that  Doble  had  been  drinking 
heavily.  The  man  was  morose  and  sullen.  His  color 
was  high.  Plainly  he  was  primed  for  a  killing  if  trouble 
came. 

"Lookin'  for  me,  Shorty?"  he  asked. 

"You  fired  Bear  Canon,"  charged  the  cowpuncher. 

"So?" 

"When  I  went  to  saddle." 

Doble' s  eyes  narrowed.  "You  aimin'  to  run  my  busi- 
ness, Shorty?" 

Neither  man  lifted  his  gaze  from  the  other.  Each 
knew  that  the  test  had  come  once  more.  They  were 
both  men  who  had  "gone  bad,"  in  the  current  phrase  of 
the  community.  Both  had  killed.  Both  searched  now 
for  an  advantage  in  that  steady  duel  of  the  eyes.  Nei- 
ther had  any  fear.  The  emotions  that  dominated  were 
cold  rage  and  caution.  Every  sense  and  nerve  in  each 
focalized  to  one  purpose  —  to  kill  without  being  killed. 

"When  yore's  is  mine,  Dug." 

"Is  this  yore's?" 

"Sure  is.  I've  stood  for  a  heap  from  you.  I've  let 
yore  ugly  temper  ride  me.  When  you  killed  Tim  Harri- 
gan  you  got  me  in  bad.  Not  the  first  time  either.  But 
I'm  damned  if  I'll  ride  with  a  coyote  low-down  enough 
to  burn  the  range." 

"No?" 


278  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"No." 

From  the  desk  came  the  sharp  angry  bark  of  a  revol- 
ver. Shorty  felt  his  hat  lift  as  a  bullet  tore  through  the 
rim.  His  eyes  swept  to  Steelman,  who  had  been  a  neg- 
ligible factor  in  his  calculations.  The  man  fired  again 
and  blew  out  the  light.  In  the  darkness  Shorty  swept 
out  both  guns  and  fired.  His  first  two  shots  w^ere  di- 
rected toward  the  man  behind  the  desk,  the  next  two  at 
the  spot  where  Doble  had  been  standing.  Another  gun 
was  booming  in  the  room,  perhaps  two.  Yellow  fire 
flashes  ripped  the  blackness. 

Shorty  whipped  open  the  door  at  his  back,  slid  through 
it,  and  kicked  it  shut  with  his  foot  as  he  leaped  from  the 
porch.  At  the  same  moment  he  thought  he  heard  a 
groan. 

Swiftly  he  ran  to  the  cottonwood  where  he  had  left 
his  horse  tied.  He  jerked  loose  the  knot,  swung  to  the 
saddle,  and  galloped  out  of  town. 

The  drumming  of  hoofs  came  down  the  w^ind  to  a 
young  fellow  returning  from  a  late  call  on  his  sweet- 
heart. He  wondered  who  was  in  such  a  hurry. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
DUG  DOBLE  RIDES  INTO  THE  HILLS 

THE  booming  of  the  guns  died  down.  The  acrid  smoke 
that  filled  the  room  lifted  to  shredded  strata.  A  man's 
deep  breathing  was  the  only  sound  in  the  heavy  darkness. 

Presently  came  a  soft  footfall  of  some  one  moving 
cautiously.  A  match  flared.  A  hand  cupped  the  flame 
for  an  instant  to  steady  it  before  the  match  moved 
toward  the  wick  of  a  kerosene  lamp. 

Dug  Doble's  first  thought  was  for  his  own  safety. 
The  house  door  was  closed,  the  window  blinds  were 
down.  He  had  heard  the  beat  of  hoofs  die  away  on  the 
road.  But  he  did  not  intend  to  be  caught  by  a  trick.  He 
stepped  forward,  locked  the  door,  and  made  sure  the 
blinds  were  offering  no  cracks  of  light.  Satisfied  that  all 
was  well,  he  turned  to  the  figure  sprawled  on  the  floor 
with  outflung  arms. 

"Dead  as  a  stuck  shote,"  he  said  callously  after  he 
had  turned  the  body  over.  "Got  him  plumb  through 
the  forehead  —  in  the  dark,  too.  Some  shootin', 
Shorty." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  the  face  of  the  man  whose 
brain  had  spun  so  many  cobwebs  of  deceit  and  treach- 
ery. Even  in  death  it  had  none  of  that  dignity  which 
sometimes  is  lent  to  those  whose  lives  have  been  full  of 
meanness  and  guile.  But  though  Doble  looked  at  his 
late  ally,  he  was  not  thinking  about  him.  He  was  map- 
ping out  his  future  course  of  action. 


280  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

If  any  one  had  heard  the  shots  and  he  were  found 
here  now,  no  jury  on  earth  could  be  convinced  that  he 
had  not  killed  Steelman.  His  six-shooter  still  gave  forth 
a  faint  trickle  of  smoke.  An  examination  would  show 
that  three  shots  had  been  fired  from  it. 

He  must  get  away  from  the  place  at  once. 

Doble  poured  himself  half  a  tumbler  of  whiskey  and 
drank  it  neat.  Yes,  he  must  go,  but  he  might  as  well 
take  with  him  any  money  Steelman  had  in  the  safe.  The 
dead  man  owed  him  a  thousand  dollars  he  would  never 
be  able  to  collect  in  any  other  way. 

He  stooped  and  examined  the  pockets  of  the  still  fig- 
ure. A  bunch  of  keys  rewarded  him.  An  old-fashioned 
safe  stood  in  the  corner  back  of  the  desk.  Doble  stooped 
in  front  of  it,  then  waited  for  an  instant  to  make  sure 
nobody  was  coming.  He  fell  to  work,  trying  the  keys 
one  after  another. 

A  key  fitted.  He  turned  it  and  swung  open  the  door. 
The  killer  drew  out  bundles  of  papers  and  glanced 
through  them  hurriedly.  Deeds,  mortgages,  oil  stocks, 
old  receipts:  he  wanted  none  of  these,  and  tossed  them 
to  the  floor  as  soon  as  he  discovered  there  were  no  bank- 
notes among  them.  Compartment  after  compartment 
he  rifled.  Behind  a  package  of  abstracts  he  found  a 
bunch  of  greenbacks  tied  together  by  a  rubber  band  at 
each  end.  The  first  bill  showed  that  the  denomination 
was  fifty  dollars.  Doble  investigated  no  farther.  He  thrust 
the  bulky  package  into  his  inside  coat  pocket  and  rose. 

Again  he  listened.  No  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  The  silence  got  on  his  nerves.  He  took  another 
big  drink  and  decided  it  was  time  to  go. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  281 

He  blew  out  the  light  and  once  more  listened.  The 
lifeless  body  of  his  ally  lying  within  touch  of  his  foot  did 
not  disturb  the  outlaw.  He  had  not  killed  him,  and  if  he 
had  it  would  have  made  no  difference.  Very  softly  for  a 
large  man,  he  passed  to  the  inner  room  and  toward  the 
back  door.  He  deflected  his  course  to  a  cupboard  where 
he  knew  Steelman  kept  liquor  and  from  a  shelf  helped 
himself  to  an  unbroken  quart  bottle  of  bourbon.  He 
knew  himself  well  enough  to  know  that  during  the  next 
twenty-four  hours  he  would  want  whiskey  badly. 

Slowly  he  unlocked  and  opened  the  back  door.  His 
eyes  searched  the  yard  and  the  open  beyond  to  make 
sure  that  neither  his  enemy  nor  a  sheriff's  posse  was 
lurking  in  the  brush  for  him.  He  crept  out  to  the  stable, 
revolver  in  hand.  Here  he  saddled  in  the  dark,  deftly 
and  rapidly,  thrusting  the  bottle  of  whiskey  into  one  of 
the  pockets  of  the  saddlebags.  Leading  the  horse  out 
into  the  mesquite,  he  swung  to  the  saddle  and  rode 
away. 

He  was  still  in  the  saddle  when  the  peaks  above 
caught  the  morning  sun  glow  in  a  shaft  of  golden  light. 
Far  up  in  the  gulches  the  new  fallen  snow  reflected  the 
dawn's  pink. 

In  a  pocket  of  the  hills  Doble  unsaddled.  He  hobbled 
his  horse  and  turned  it  loose  to  graze  while  he  lay  down 
under  a  pine  with  the  bottle  for  a  companion. 

The  man  had  always  had  a  difficult  temper.  This  had 
grown  on  him  and  been  responsible  largely  for  his  de- 
cline in  life.  It  had  been  no  part  of  his  plan  to  "go  bad." 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  been  headed  for  suc- 
cess in  the  community.  He  had  held  men's  respect,  even 


282  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

though  they  had  not  liked  him.  Then,  somehow,  he  had 
turned  the  wrong  corner  and  been  unable  to  retrace  his 
steps. 

He  could  even  put  a  finger  on  the  time  he  had  com- 
menced to  slip.  It  had  begun  when  he  had  quarreled 
with  Emerson  Crawford  about  his  daughter  Joyce. 
Shorty  and  he  had  done  some  brand-burning  through  a 
wet  blanket.  But  he  had  not  gone  so  far  that  a  return  to 
respectability  was  impossible.  A  little  rustling  on  the 
quiet,  with  no  evidence  to  fasten  it  on  one,  was  nothing 
to  bar  a  man  from  society.  He  had  gone  more  definitely 
wrong  after  Sanders  came  back  to  Malapi.  The  young 
ex-convict,  he  chose  to  think,  was  responsible  for  the 
circumstances  that  made  of  him  an  outlaw.  Crawford 
and  Sanders  together  had  exposed  him  and  driven  him 
from  the  haunts  of  men  to  the  hills.  He  hated  them 
both  with  a  bitter,  morose  virulence  his  soul  could  not 
escape. 

Throughout  the  day  he  continued  to  drink.  This 
gave  him  no  refuge  from  himself.  He  still  brooded  in  the 
inferno  of  his  own  thought-circle.  It  is  possible  that  a 
touch  of  madness  had  begun  to  affect  his  brain.  Cer- 
tainly his  subsequent  actions  would  seem  to  bear  out 
this  theory. 

Revenge!  The  thought  of  it  spurred  him  every  wak- 
ing hour,  roweling  his  wounded  pride  cruelly.  There  was 
a  way  within  reach  of  his  hand,  one  suggested  by  Steel- 
man's  whisperings,  though  never  openly  advocated  by 
the  sheepman.  The  jealousy  of  the  man  urged  him  to  it, 
and  his  consuming  vanity  persuaded  him  that  out  of 
evil  might  come  good.  He  could  make  the  girl  love  him. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  283 

So  her  punishment  would  bring  her  joy  in  the  end.  As 
for  Crawford  and  Sanders,  his  success  would  be  such 
bitter  medicine  to  them  that  time  would  never  wear 
away  the  taste  of  it. 

At  dusk  he  rose  and  resaddled.  Under  the  stars  he 
rode  back  to  Malapi.  He  knew  exactly  what  he  meant 
to  do  and  how  he  meant  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
THE  TUNNEL 

DAVE  knew  no  rest  that  night.  He  patrolled  his  line 
from  San  Jacinto  to  Cattle  and  back  again,  stopping  al- 
ways to  lend  a  hand  where  the  attack  was  most  furious. 
The  men  of  his  crew  were  weary  to  exhaustion,  but  the 
pressure  of  the  fire  was  so  great  that  they  dared  not 
leave  the  front.  As  soon  as  one  blaze  was  beaten  out, 
another  started.  A  shower  of  sparks  close  to  Cattle 
Canon  swept  over  the  ridge  and  set  the  thick  grass  afire. 
This  was  smothered  with  saddle  blankets  and  with  sand 
and  dirt  thrown  from  shovels. 

Nearer  to  San  Jacinto  Canon  the  danger  was  more 
acute.  Dave  did  not  dare  back-fire  on  account  of  the 
wind.  He  dynamited  the  timber  to  make  a  trail-break 
against  the  howling,  roaring  wall  of  fire  plunging  for- 
ward. 

As  soon  as  the  flames  seized  the  timber  the  heat  grew 
more  intense.  The  sound  of  falling  trees  as  they  crashed 
down  marked  the  progress  of  the  fire.  The  men  re- 
treated, staggering  with  exhaustion,  hands  and  faces 
flayed,  eyes  inflamed  and  blinded  by  the  black  smoke 
that  rolled  over  them. 

A  stiff  wind  was  blowing,  but  it  was  no  longer  a  steady 
one.   Sometimes  it  bore  from  the  northeast;  again  in  a  1 
cross-current  almost  directly  from  the  east.  The  smoke 
poured  in,  swirling  round  them  till  they  scarce  knew  one 
direction  from  another. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  285 

The  dense  cloud  lifted  for  a  moment,  swept  away  by 
an  air  current.  To  the  fire-fighters  that  glimpse  of  the 
landscape  told  an  appalling  fact.  The  demon  had  es- 
caped below  from  San  Jacinto  Canon  and  been  swept 
westward  by  a  slant  of  wind  with  the  speed  of  an  ex- 
press train.  They  were  trapped  by  the  back-fire  in  a 
labyrinth  from  which  there  appeared  no  escape.  Every 
path  of  exit  was  blocked.  The  flames  had  leaped  from 
hilltop  to  hilltop. 

The  men  gathered  together  to  consult.  Many  of  them 
were  on  the  verge  of  panic. 

Dave  spoke  quietly.  "We've  got  a  chance  if  we  keep 
our  heads.  There's  an  old  mining  tunnel  hereabouts. 
Follow  me,  and  stay  together." 

He  plunged  into  the  heavy  smoke  that  hkd  fallen 
about  them  again,  working  his  way  by  instinct  rather 
than  by  sight.  Twice  he  stopped,  to  make  sure  that  his 
men  were  all  at  heel.  Several  times  he  left  them,  diving 
into  the  smoke  to  determine  which  way  they  must  go. 

The  dry,  salt  crackle  of  a  dead  pine  close  at  hand 
would  have  told  him,  even  if  the  oppressive  heat  had 
not,  that  the  fire  would  presently  sweep  over  the  ground 
where  they  stood.  He  drew  the  men  steadily  toward 
Cattle  Canon. 

In  that  furious,  murk-filled  world  he  could  not  be  sure 
he  was  moving  in  the  right  direction,  though  the  slope 
of  the  ground  led  him  to  think  so.  Falling  trees  crashed 
about  them.  The  men  staggered  on  in  the  uncanny 
light  which  tinged  even  the  smoke. 

Dave  stopped  and  gave  sharp,  crisp  orders.  His  voice 
was  even  and  steady.  "Must  be  close  to  it  now.  Lie 


286  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

back  of  these  down  trees  with  your  faces  close  to  the 
ground.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  Shorty,  you're  boss 
of  the  crew  while  I'm  away." 

"You're  gonna  leave  us  to  roast,"  a  man  accused,  in  a 
voice  that  was  half  a  scream. 

Sanders  did  not  stop  to  answer  him,  but  Shorty  took 
the  hysterical  man  in  hand.  "Git  down  by  that  log 
pronto  or  I'll  bore  a  hole  in  you.  Ain't  you  got  sense 
enough  to  see  he'll  save  us  if  there's  a  chance?" 

The  man  fell  trembling  to  the  ground. 

"Two  men  behind  each  log,"  ordered  Shorty.  "If 
yore  clothes  git  afire,  help  each  other  put  it  out." 

They  lay  down  and  waited  while  the  fire  swept  above 
and  around  them.  Fortunately  the  woods  here  were  not 
dense.  Men  prayed  or  cursed  or  wept,  according  to 
their  natures.  The  logs  in  front  of  some  of  them  caught 
fire  and  spread  to  their  clothing.  Shorty's  voice  encour- 
aged them. 

"Stick  it  out,  boys.   He'll  be  back  if  he's  alive." 

It  could  have  been  only  minutes,  but  it  seemed  hours 
before  the  voice  of  Sanders  rang  out  above  the  fury  of 
the  blast. 

"All  up!  I've  found  the  tunnel!   Step  lively  now!" 

They  staggered  after  their  leader,  Shorty  bringing  up 
the  rear  to  see  that  none  collapsed  by  the  way.  The  line 
moved  drunkenly  forward.  Now  and  again  a  man  w^ent 
down,  overcome  by  the  smoke  and  heat.  With  brutal 
kicks  Shorty  drove  him  to  his  feet  again. 

The  tunnel  was  a  shallow  one  in  a  hillside.  Dave 
stood  aside  and  counted  the  men  as  they  passed  in.  Two 
were  missing.  He  ran  along  the  back  trail,  dense  with 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  287 

smoke  from  the  approaching  flames,  and  stumbled  into  a 
man.  It  was  Shorty.  He  was  dragging  with  him  the 
body  of  a  man  who  had  fainted.  Sanders  seized  an  arm 
and  together  they  managed  to  get  the  unconscious  vic- 
tim to  the  tunnel. 

Dave  was  the  last  man  in.  He  learned  from  the  men 
in  the  rear  that  the  tunnel  had  no  drift.  The  floor  was 
moist  and  there  was  a  small  seepage  spring  in  it  near  the 
entrance. 

Some  of  the  men  protested  at  staying. 

"The  fire '11  lick  in  and  burn  us  out  like  rats,"  one 
man  urged.  "This  ain't  no  protection.  We've  just 
walked  into  a  trap.  I'll  take  my  chance  outside." 

Dave  reached  forward  and  lifted  one  of  Shorty's  guns 
from  its  holster.  "You'll  stay  right  here,  Dillon.  We 
did  n't  make  it  one  minute  too  soon.  The  whole  hill  out 
there's  roaring." 

"I'll  take  my  chance  out  there.  That's  my  lookout," 
said  the  man,  moving  toward  the  entrance. 

"No.  You'll  stay  here."  Dave's  hard,  chill  gaze 
swept  over  his  crew.  Several  of  them  were  backing  Dil- 
lon and  others  were  wavering.  "It's  your  only  chance, 
and  I'm  here  to  see  you  take  it.  Don't  take  another 
step." 

Dillon  took  one,  and  went  crumpling  to  the  granite 
floor  before  Dave  could  move.  Shorty  had  knocked  him 
down  with  the  butt  of  his  nine-inch-barrel  revolver. 

Already  smoke  was  filling  the  cave.  The  fire  had 
raced  to  its  mouth  and  was  licking  in  with  long,  red, 
hungry  tongues.  The  tunnel  timbers  were  smouldering. 

"Lie  down  and  breathe  the  air  close  to  the  ground," 


288  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

ordered  Dave,  just  as  though  a  mutiny  had  not  been 
quelled  a  moment  before.  "Stay  down  there.  Don't  get 
up." 

He  found  an  old  tomato  can  and  used  it  to  throw 
water  from  the  seep-spring  upon  the  burning  wood. 
Shorty  and  one  or  two  of  the  other  men  helped  him. 
The  heat  near  the  mouth  was  so  intense  they  could  not 
stand  it.  All  but  Sanders  collapsed  and  staggered  back 
to  sink  down  to  the  fresher  air  below. 

Their  place  of  refuge  packed  with  smoke.  A  tree 
crashed  down  at  the  mouth  and  presently  a  second  one. 
These,  blazing,  sent  more  heat  in  to  cook  the  tortured 
men  inside.  In  that  bakehouse  of  hell  men  showed  again 
their  nature,  cursing,  praying,  storming,  or  weeping  as 
they  lay. 

The  prospect  hole  became  a  madhouse.  A  big  Hun- 
garian, crazed  by  the  torment  he  was  enduring,  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  made  for  the  blazing  hill  outside. 

"Back  there!"  Dave  shouted  hoarsely. 

The  big  fellow  rushed  him.  His  leader  flung  him  back 
against  the  rock  wall.  He  rushed  again,  screaming  in 
crazed  anger.  Sanders  struck  him  down  with  the  long 
barrel  of  the  forty-five.  The  Hungarian  lay  where  he 
fell  for  a  few  minutes,  then  crawled  back  from  the 
mouth  of  the  pit. 

At  intervals  others  tried  to  break  out  and  were  driven 
back. 

Dave's  eyebrows  crisped  away.  He  could  scarcely 
draw  a  breath  through  his  inflamed  throat.  His  eyes 
were  swollen  and  almost  blinded  with  smoke.  His  lungs 
ached.  Whenever  he  took  a  step  he  staggered.  But  he 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  289 

stuck  to  his  job  hardily.  The  tomato  can  moved  more 
jerkily.  It  carried  less  water.  But  it  still  continued  to 
drench  the  blazing  timbers  at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

So  Dave  held  the  tunnel  entrance  against  the  fire  and 
against  his  own  racked  and  tortured  men.  Occasionally 
he  lay  down  to  breathe  the  air  close  to  the  floor.  There 
was  no  circulation,  for  the  tunnel  ended  in  a  wall 
face.  But  the  smoke  was  not  so  heavy  close  to  the 
ground. 

Man  after  man  succumbed  to  the  stupor  of  uncon- 
sciousness. Men  choked,  strangled,  and  even  died  while 
their  leader,  his  hair  burnt  and  his  eyes  almost  sightless, 
face  and  body  raw  with  agonizing  wounds,  crept  feebly 
about  his  business  of  saving  their  lives. 

Fire-crisped  and  exhausted,  he  dropped  down  at  last 
into  forgetfulness  of  pain.  And  the  flames,  which  had 
fought  with  such  savage  fury  to  blot  out  the  little  group 
of  men,  fell  back  sullenly  in  defeat.  They  had  spent 
themselves  and  could  do  no  more. 

The  line  of  fire  had  passed  over  them.  It  left  charred 
trees  still  burning,  a  hillside  black  and  smoking,  desola- 
tion and  ruin  in  its  path. 

Out  of  the  prospect  hole  a  man  crawled  over  Dave's 
prostrate  body.  He  drew  a  breath  of  sweet,  delicious 
air.  A  cool  wind  lifted  the  hair  from  his  forehead.  He 
tried  to  give  a  cowpuncher's  yell  of  joy.  From  out  of  his 
throat  came  only  a  cracked  and  raucous  rumble.  The 
man  was  Shorty. 

He  crept  back  into  the  tunnel  and  whispered  hoarsely 
the  good  news.  Men  came  out  on  all  fours  over  the 
bodies  of  those  who  could  not  move.  Shorty  dragged 


290  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave  into  the  open.   He  was  a  sorry  sight.    The  shirt 
had  been  almost  literally  burned  from  his  body. 

In  the  fresh  air  the  men  revived  quickly.  They  went 
back  into  the  cavern  and  dragged  out  those  of  their 
companions  not  yet  able  to  help  themselves.  Three  out 
of  the  twenty-nine  would  never  help  themselves  again. 
They  had  perished  in  the  tunnel. 


CHAPTER  XL 
A  MESSAGE 

THE  women  of  Malapi  responded  generously  to  the  call 
Joyce  made  upon  them  to  back  their  men  in  the  fight 
against  the  fire  in  the  chaparral.  They  were  simple  folk 
of  a  generation  not  far  removed  from  the  pioneer  one 
which  had  settled  the  country.  Some  of  them  had  come 
across  the  plains  in  white-topped  movers'  wagons. 
Others  had  lain  awake  in  anxiety  on  account  of  raiding 
Indians  on  the  war-path.  All  had  lived  lives  of  frugal  use- 
fulness. It  is  characteristic  of  the  frontier  that  its  in- 
habitants help  each  other  without  stint  when  the  need 
for  service  arises.  Now  they  cooked  and  baked  cheer- 
fully to  supply  the  wants  of  the  fire-fighters. 

Joyce  was  in  command  of  the  commissary  department. 
'She  ordered  and  issued  supplies,  checked  up  the  cooked 
food,  and  arranged  for  its  transportation  to  the  field  of 
battle.  The  first  shipment  went  out  about  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day  of  the  fire.  A  second 
one  left  town  just  after  midnight.  A  third  was  being 
packed  during  the  forenoon  of  the  second  day. 

Though  Joyce  had  been  up  most  of  the  night,  she 
showed  no  signs  of  fatigue.  In  spite  of  her  slenderness, 
the  girl  was  possessed  of  a  fine  animal  vigor.  There  was 
vitality  in  her  crisp  tread.  She  was  a  decisive  young 
woman  who  got  results  competently. 

A  bustling  old  lady  with  the  glow  of  winter  apples  in 
her  wrinkled  cheeks  remonstrated  with  her. 


292  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"You  can't  do  it  all,  dearie.  If  I  was  you  I'd  go  home 
and  rest  now.  Take  a  nice  long  nap  and  you'll  feel  real 
fresh,"  she  said. 

"I'm  not  tired,"  replied  Joyce.  "Not  a  bit.  Think 
of  those  poor  men  out  there  fighting  the  fire  day  and 
night.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  quit." 

The  old  lady's  eyes  admired  the  clean,  fragrant  girl 
packing  sandwiches.  She  sighed,  regretfully.  Not  long 
since  —  as  her  memory  measured  time  —  she  too  had 
boasted  a  clear  white  skin  that  flushed  to  a  becoming 
pink  on  her  smooth  cheeks  when  occasion  called. 

"A- well  a- well,  dearie,  you'll  never  be  young  but 
once.  Make  ye  the  most  of  it,"  she  said,  a  dream  in  her 
faded  eyes. 

Out  of  the  heart  of  the  girl  a  full-throated  laugh 
welled.  "I'll  do  just  that,  Auntie.  Then  I '11  grow  some 
day  into  a  nice  old  lady  like  you."  Joyce  recurred  to 
business  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice.  "How  many  more 
of  the  ham  sandwiches  are  there,  Mrs.  Kent?" 

About  sunset  Joyce  went  home  to  see  that  Keith  was 
behaving  properly  and  snatched  two  hours'  sleep  while 
she  could.  Another  shipment  of  food  had  to  be  sent  out 
that  night  and  she  did  not  expect  to  get  to  bed  till  well 
into  the  small  hours. 

Keith  was  on  hand  when  she  awakened  to  beg  for 
permission  to  go  out  to  the  fire. 

"I'll  carry  water,  Joy,  to  the  men.  Some  one's  got  to 
carry  it,  ain't  they,  'n'  if  I  don't  mebbe  a  man  '11  haf  to. " 

The  young  mother  shook  her  head  decisively.  "No, 
Keithie,  you're  too  little.  Grow  real  fast  and  you'll  be 
a  big  boy  soon." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  293 

"You  don't  ever  lemme  have  any  fun/'  he  pouted. 
"I  gotta  go  to  bed  an'  sleep  an'  sleep  an'  sleep." 

She  had  no  time  to  stay  and  comfort  him.  He  pulled 
away  sulkily  from  her  good-night  kiss  and  refused  to 
be  placated.  As  she  moved  away  into  the  darkness,  it 
gave  Joyce  a  tug  of  the  heart  to  see  his  small  figure  on 
the  porch.  For  she  knew  that  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of 
sight  he  would  break  down  and  wail. 

He  did.  Keith  was  of  that  temperament  which  wants 
what  it  wants  when  it  wants  it.  After  a  time  his  sobs 
subsided.  There  was  n't  much  use  crying  when  nobody 
was  around  to  pay  any  attention  to  him. 

He  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  It  was  hours  later  that 
the  voice  of  some  one  calling  penetrated  his  dreams. 
Keith  woke  up,  heard  the  sound  of  a  knocking  on  the 
door,  and  went  to  the  window.  The  cook  was  deaf  as 
a  post  and  would  never  hear.  His  sister  was  away. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  message  from  his  father. 

A  man  stepped  out  from  the  house  and  looked  up  at 
him.  "Mees  Crawford,  ees  she  at  home  maybeso?"  he 
asked.  The  man  was  a  Mexican. 

"Wait  a  jiffy.  I '11  get  up,"  the  youngster  called  back. 

He  hustled  into  his  clothes,  went  down,  and  opened 
the  door. 

"The  senorita.  Ees  she  at  home?"  the  man  asked 
again. 

"She's  down  to  the  Boston  Emporium  cuttin'  sand- 
wiches an'  packin'  'em,"  Keith  said.  "Who  wants  her?" 

"I  have  a  note  for  her  from  Senor  Sanders." 

Master  Keith  seized  his  opportunity  promptly.  "I'll 
take  you  down  there." 


294  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

The  man  brought  his  horse  from  the  hitching-rack 
across  the  road.  Side  by  side  they  walked  downtown, 
the  youngster  talking  excitedly  about  the  fire,  the  Mex- 
ican either  keeping  silence  or  answering  with  a  brief 
"Si,  muchacho." 

Into  the  Boston  Emporium  Keith  raced  ahead  of  the 
messenger.  '*  Joy,  Joy,  a  man  wants  to  see  you!  From 
Dave!"  he  shouted. 

Joyce  flushed.  Perhaps  she  would  have  preferred  not 
to  have  her  private  business  shouted  out  before  a  room- 
ful of  women.  But  she  put  a  good  face  on  it. 

"A  letter,  senorita,"  the  man  said,  presenting  her 
with  a  note  which  he  took  from  his  pocket. 

The  note  read: 

Miss  JOYCE: 

Your  father  has  been  hurt  in  the  fire.  This  man  will  take 
you  to  him. 

DAVE  SANDERS 

Joyce  went  white  to  the  lips  and  caught  at  the  table 
to  steady  herself.  "Is  —  is  he  badly  hurt?"  she  asked. 

The  man  took  refuge  in  ignorance,  as  Mexicans  do 
when  they  do  not  want  to  talk.  He  did  not  understand 
English,  he  said,  and  when  the  girl  spoke  in  Spanish  he 
replied  sulkily  that  he  did  not  know  what  was  in  the 
letter.  He  had  been  told  to  deliver  it  and  bring  the  lady 
back.  That  was  all. 

Keith  burst  into  tears.  He  wanted  to  go  to  his  father 
too,  he  sobbed. 

The  girl,  badly  shaken  herself  in  soul,  could  not  refuse 
him.  If  his  father  was  hurt  he  had  a  right  to  be  with  him. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  295 

"You  may  ride  along  with  me,"  she  said,  her  lip 
trembling. 

The  women  gathered  round  the  boy  and  his  sister, 
expressing  sympathy  after  the  universal  fashion  of  their 
sex.  They  were  kinder  and  more  tender  than  usual, 
pressing  on  them  offers  of  supplies  and  service.  Joyce 
thanked  them,  a  lump  in  her  throat,  but  it  was  plain 
that  the  only  way  in  which  they  could  help  was  to 
expedite  her  setting  out. 

Soon  they  were  on  the  road,  Keith  riding  behind  his 
sister  and  clinging  to  her  waist.  Joyce  had  slipped  a 
belt  around  the  boy  and  fastened  it  to  herself  so  that  he 
would  not  fall  from  the  saddle  in  case  he  slept.  The 
Mexican  rode  in  complete  silence. 

For  an  hour  they  jogged  along  the  dusty  road  which 
led  to  the  new  oil  field,  then  swung  to  the  right  into  the 
low  foothills  among  which  the  mountains  were  rooted. 

Joyce  was  a  bit  surprised.  She  asked  questions,  and 
again  received  for  answers  shrugs  and  voluble  Spanish 
irrelevant  to  the  matter.  The  young  woman  knew  that 
the  battle  was  being  fought  among  the  canons  leading 
to  the  plains.  This  trail  must  be  a  short  cut  to  one  of 
them.  She  gave  up  trying  to  get  information  from  her 
guide.  He  was  either  stupid  or  sulky;  perhaps  a  little 
of  each. 

The  hill  trail  went  up  and  down.  It  dipped  into  val- 
leys and  meandered  round  hills.  It  climbed  a  mountain 
spur,  slipped  through  a  notch,  and  plumped  sharply 
into  a  small  mountain  park.  At  the  notch  the  Mexi- 
can drew  up  and  pointed  a  finger.  In  the  dim  pre-dawn 
grayness  Joyce  could  see  nothing  but  a  gulf  of  mist. 


296  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Over  there,  senorita,  he  waits." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  arroyo.   Come." 

They  descended,  letting  the  horses  pick  their  way 
down  cautiously  through  the  loose  rubble  of  the  steep 
pitch.  The  heart  of  the  girl  beat  fast  with  anxiety 
about  her  father,  with  the  probability  that  David 
Sanders  would  soon  come  to  meet  her  out  of  the  silence, 
with  some  vague  prescience  of  unknown  evil  clutching 
at  her  bosom.  There  had  been  growing  in  Joyce  a  feel- 
ing that  something  was  wrong,  something  sinister  was 
at  work  which  she  did  not  understand. 

A  mountain  corral  took  form  in  the  gloom.  The  Mex- 
ican slipped  the  bars  of  the  gate  to  let  the  horses  in. 

"Is  he  here?"  asked  Joyce  breathlessly. 

The  man  pointed  to  a  one-room  shack  huddled  on 
the  hillside. 

Keith  had  fallen  sound  asleep,  his  head  against  the 
girl's  back.  "Don't  wake  him  when  you  lift  him 
down,"  she  told  the  man.  "I'll  just  let  him  sleep  if  he 
will." 

The  Mexican  carried  Keith  to  a  pile  of  sheepskins 
under  a  shed  and  lowered  him  to  them  gently.  The  boy 
stirred,  turned  over,  but  did  not  awaken. 

Joyce  ran  toward  the  shack.  There  was  no  light  in  it, 
no  sign  of  life  about  the  place.  She  could  not  under- 
stand this.  Surely  some  one  must  be  looking  after  her 
father.  Whoever  this  was  must  have  heard  her  coming. 
Why  had  he  not  appeared  at  the  door?,  Dave,  of  course, 
might  be  away  fighting  fire,  but  some  one  .  .  . 

Her  heart  lost  a  beat.  The  shadow  of  some  horrible 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  297 

thing  was  creeping  over  her  life.  Was  her  father  dead? 
What  shock  was  awaiting  her  in  the  cabin? 

At  the  door  she  raised  her  voice  in  a  faint,  ineffective 
call.  Her  knees  gave  way.  She  felt  her  body  shaking  as 
with  an  ague.  But  she  clenched  her  teeth  on  the  weak- 
ness and  moved  into  the  room. 

It  was  dark  —  darker  than  outdoors.  But  as  her  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  absence  of  light  she  made  out  a 
table,  a  chair,  a  stove.  From  the  far  side  of  the  room 
came  a  gurgle  that  was  half  a  snore. 

"Father,"  she  whispered,  and  moved  forward. 

Her  outstretched  hand  groped  for  the  bed  and  fell  on 
clothing  warm  with  heat  transmitted  from  a  human  body. 
At  the  same  time  she  subconsciously  classified  a  strong 
odor  that  permeated  the  atmosphere.  It  was  whiskey. 

The  sleeper  stirred  uneasily  beneath  her  touch.  She 
felt  stifled,  wanted  to  shout  out  her  fears  in  a  scream. 
Far  beyond  the  need  of  proof  she  knew  now  that  some- 
thing was  very  wrong,  though  she  still  could  not  guess 
at  what  the  dreadful  menace  was. 

But  Joyce  had  courage.  She  was  what  the  wind  and 
the  sun  and  a  long  line  of  sturdy  ancestors  had  made 
her.  She  leaned  forward  toward  the  awakening  man 
just  as  he  turned  in  the  bunk. 

A  hand  fell  on  her  wrist  and  closed,  the  fingers  like 
bands  of  iron.  Joyce  screamed  wildly,  her  nerve  swept 
away  in  a  reaction  of  terror.  She  fought  like  a  wildcat, 
twisting  and  writhing  with  all  her  supple  strength  to 
break  the  grip  on  her  arm. 

For  she  knew  now  what  the  evil  was  that  had  been 
tolling  a  bell  of  warning  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
HANK  BRINGS  BAD  NEWS 

THE  change  in  the  wind  had  cost  three  lives,  but  it  had 
saved  the  Jackpot  property  and  the  feed  on  the  range. 
After  the  fire  in  San  Jacinto  Canon  had  broken  through 
Hart's  defense  by  its  furious  and  persistent  attack, 
nothing  could  have  prevented  it  from  spreading  over 
the  plains  on  a  wild  rampage  except  a  cloudburst  or  a 
decided  shift  of  wind.  This  last  had  come  and  had 
driven  the  flames  back  on  territory  already  burnt  over. 

The  fire  did  not  immediately  die  out,  but  it  soon  be- 
gan to  dwindle.  Only  here  and  there  did  it  leap  forward 
with  its  old  savage  fury.  Presently  these  sporadic 
plunges  wore  themselves  out  for  lack  of  fuel.  The 
devastated  area  became  a  smouldering,  smoking  char 
showing  a  few  isolated  blazes  in  the  barren  ruin.  There 
were  still  possibilities  of  harm  in  them  if  the  wind  should 
shift  again,  but  for  the  present  they  were  subdued  to  a 
shadow  of  their  former  strength.  It  remained  the  busi- 
ness of  the  fire-fighters  to  keep  a  close  watch  on  the  red- 
hot  embers  to  prevent  them  from  being  flung  far  by  the 
breeze. 

Fortunately  the  wind  died  down  soon,  reducing  the 
danger  to  a  minimum. 

Dave  handed  back  to  Shorty  the  revolver  he  had 
borrowed  so  peremptorily  from  his  holster. 

"Much  obliged.   I  won't  need  this  any  more." 

The  cowpuncher  spoke  grimly.   "I'm  liable  to." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  299 

"Mexico  is  a  good  country  for  a  cattleman/'  Sanders 
said,  looking  straight  at  him. 

Shorty  met  him  eye  to  eye.  "So  I've  been  told." 

"Good  range  and  water-holes.  Stock  fatten  well." 

"Yes." 

"A  man  might  do  worse  than  go  there  if  he's  worn 
out  this  country." 

"Stage-robbers  and  rustlers  right  welcome,  are  they? " 
asked  Shorty  hardily. 

"No  questions  asked  about  a  man's  past  if  his  present 
is  O.K." 

"Listens  good.  If  I  meet  anybody  lookin'  to  make  a 
change  I'll  tell  him  you  recommended  Mexico."  The 
eyes  of  the  two  men  still  clashed.  In  each  man's  was  a 
deep  respect  for  the  other's  gameness.  They  had  been 
tried  by  fire  and  come  through  clean.  Shorty  voiced 
this  defiantly.  "I  don't  like  a  hair  of  yore  head.  Never 
did.  You're  too  damned  interferin'  to  suit  me.  But  I'll 
say  this.  You'll  do  to  ride  the  river  with,  Sanders." 

"  I  '11  interfere  again  this  far,  Shorty.  You  're  too  good 
a  man  to  go  bad." 

"Oh,  hell!"  The  outlaw  turned  away;  then  thought 
better  of  it  and  came  back.  "I'll  name  no  names,  but 
I'll  say  this.  Par  as  I'm  concerned  Tim  Harrigan 
might  be  alive  to-day." 

Dave,  with  a  nod,  accepted  this  as  true.  "I  guessed 
as  much.  You've  been  running  with  a  mighty  bad 
pardner." 

"Have  I?"  asked  the  rustler  blandly.  "Did  I  say 
anything  about  a  pardner?" 

His  eye  fell  on  the  three  still  figures  lying  on  the  hill- 


300  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

side  in  a  row.  Not  a  twitching  muscle  in  his  face  showed 
what  he  was  thinking,  that  they  might  have  been  full 
of  splendid  life  and  vigor  if  Dug  Doble  had  not  put  a 
match  to  the  chaparral  back  of  Bear  Canon.  The  man 
had  murdered  them  just  as  surely  as  though  he  had 
shot  them  down  with  a  rifle.  For  weeks  Shorty  had  been 
getting  his  affairs  in  order  to  leave  the  country,  but 
before  he  went  he  intended  to  have  an  accounting  with 
one  man. 

Dillon  came  up  to  Sanders  and  spoke  in  an  awed 
voice.  "What  do  you  aim  to  do  with  —  these,  San- 
ders?" His  hand  indicated  the  bodies  lying  near. 

^'Send  horses  up  for  them,"  Dave  said.  "You  can 
take  all  the  men  back  to  camp  with  you  except  three 
to  help  me  watch  the  fire.  Tell  Mr.  Crawford  how 
things  are." 

The  men  crept  down  the  hill  like  veterans  a  hundred 
years  old.  Ragged,  smoke-blackened,  and  grimy,  they 
moved  like  automatons.  So  great  was  their  exhaustion 
that  one  or  two  dropped  out  of  line  and  lay  down  on 
the  charred  ground  to  sleep.  The  desire  for  it  was  so 
overmastering  that  they  could  not  drive  their  weighted 
legs  forward. 

A  man  on  horseback  appeared  and  rode  up  to  Dave 
and  Shorty.  The  man  was  Bob  Hart.  The  red  eyes  in 
his  blackened  face  were  sunken  and  his  coat  hung  on 
him  in  crisped  shreds.  He  looked  down  at  the  bodies 
lying  side  by  side.  His  face  worked,  but  he  made  na 
verbal  comment. 

"We  piled  into  a  cave.  Some  of  the  boys  couldn't 
stand  it,"  Dave  explained. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  301 

Bob's  gaze  took  in  his  friend.  The  upper  half  of  his 
body  was  almost  naked.  Both  face  and  torso  were  raw 
with  angry  burns.  Eyebrows  had  disappeared  and  eyes 
were  so  swollen  as  to  be  almost  closed.  He  was  gaunt, 
ragged,  unshaven,  and  bleeding.  Shorty,  too,  appeared 
to  have  gone  through  the  wars. 

"You  boys  oughtta  have  the  doc  see  you,"  Hart  said 
gently.  "He's  down  at  camp  now.  One  of  Em's  men 
had  an  arm  busted  by  a  limb  of  a  tree  fallin'  on  him. 
I ' ve  got  a  coupla  casualties  in  my  gang.  Two  or  three 
of  'em  runnin'  a  high  fever.  Looks  like  they  may 
have  pneumonia,  doc  says.  Lungs  all  inflamed  from 
swallowin'  smoke.  .  .  .  You  take  my  hawss  and  ride 
down  to  camp,  Dave.  I'll  stick  around  here  till  the  old 
man  sends  a  relief." 

"No,  you  go  down  and  report  to  him,  Bob.  If  Craw- 
ford has  any  fresh  men  I'd  like  mine  relieved.  They've 
been  on  steady  for  'most  two  days  and  nights.  Four  or 
five  can  hold  the  fire  here.  All  they  need  do  is  watch 
it." 

Hart  did  not  argue.  He  knew  how  Dave  stuck  to  a 
thing  like  a  terrier  to  a  rat.  He  would  not  leave  the 
ground  till  orders  came  from  Emerson  Crawford. 

"Lemme  go  an'  report,"  suggested  Shorty.  "I 
wanta  get  my  bronc  an'  light  out  pronto.  Never  can 
tell  when  Applegate  might  drap  around  an'  ask  ques- 
tions. Me,  I'm  due  in  the  hills." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Bob.  "See  Crawford  himself, 
Shorty." 

The  outlaw  pulled  himself  to  the  saddle  and  cantered 
off. 


302  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Best  man  in  my  gang,"  Dave  said,  following  him 
with  his  eyes.  "There  to  a  finish  and  never  a  whimper 
out  of  him.  Dragged  a  man  out  of  the  fire  when  he 
might  have  been  hustling  for  his  own  skin." 

"Shorty 's  game,"  admittedHart.  "Pity  he  went  bad." 
"Yes.   He  told  me  he  did  n't  kill  Harrigan." 
"Reckon  Dug  did  that.   More  like  him." 
Half  an  hour  later  the  relief  came.   Hart,  Dave,  and 
the  three  fire-fighters  who  had  stayed  to  watch  rode 
back  to  camp. 

Crawford  had  lost  his  voice.  He  had  already  seen 
Hart  since  the  fire  had  subsided,  so  his  greeting  was  to 
Sanders. 

"Good  work,  son,"  he  managed  to  whisper,  a  quaver 
in  his  throat.  "I'd  rather  we'd  lost  the  whole  works 
than  to  have  had  that  happen  to  the  boys,  a  hundred 
times  rather.  I  reckon  it  must  V  been  mighty  bad  up 
there  when  the  back-fire  caught  you.  The  boys  have 
been  tellin'  me.  You  saved  all  their  lives,  I  judge." 
"I  happened  to  know  where  the  cave  was." 
"Yes."  Crawford's  whisper  was  sadly  ironic.  "Well, 
I'm  sure  glad  you  happened  to  know  that.  If  you 
had  n't  — "  The  old  cattleman  gave  a  little  gesture 
that  completed  the  sentence.  The  tragedy  that  had 
taken  place  had  shaken  his  soul.  He  felt  in  a  way  re- 
sponsible. 

"If  the  doc  ain't  busy  now,  I  reckon  Dave  could  use 
him,"  Bob  said.  "I  reckon  he  needs  a  liT  attention. 
Then  I'm  ready  for  grub  an'  a  sleep  twice  round  the 
clock.  If  any  one  asks  me,  I'm  sure  enough  dead  beat. 
I  don't  ever  want  to  look  at  a  shovel  again." 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  303 

"Doc 9s  fixin'  up  Lanier's  burnt  laig.  He 'd  oughtta  be 
through  soon  now.  I'll  have  him  'tend  to  Dave's  burns 
right  away  then,"  said  Crawford.  He  turned  to  San- 
ders. "How  about  it,  son?  You  sure  look  bunged  up 
pretty  bad." 

"I'm  about  all  in,"  admitted  Dave.  "Reckon  we  all 
are.  Shorty  gone  yet?" 

"Yes.  Lit  out  after  he'd  made  a  report.  Said  he  had 
an  engagement  to  meet  a  man.  Expect  he  meant  he  had 
an  engagement  not  to  meet  the  sheriff.  I  rec'lect  when 
Shorty  was  a  mighty  promisin'  young  fellow  before 
Brad  Steelman  got  a-holt  of  him.  He  punched  cows  for 
me  twenty  years  ago.  He  had  n't  took  the  wrong  turn 
then.  You  cayn't  travel  crooked  trails  an'  not  reach  a 
closed  pocket  o'  the  hills  sometime." 

For  several  minutes  they  had  heard  the  creaking  of  a 
wagon  working  up  an  improvised  road  toward  the  camp. 
Now  it  moved  into  sight.  The  teamster  called  to  Craw- 
ford. 

"Here's  another  load  o'  grub,  boss.  Miss  Joyce  she 
rustled  up  them  canteens  you  was  askin'  for." 

Crawford  stepped  over  to  the  wagon.  "Don't  reckon 
we'll  need  the  canteens,  Hank,  but  we  can  use  the  grub 
fine.  The  fire's  about  out." 

"That's  bully.  Say,  I  got  news  for  you,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford. Brad  Steelman 's  dead.  They  found  him  in  his 
house,  shot  plumb  through  the  head.  I  reckon  he  won't 
do  you  any  more  meanness." 

"Who  killed  him?" 

"They  ain't  sayin',"  returned  the  teamster  cau- 
tiously. "Some  folks  was  guessin'  that  mebbe  Dug  Do- 


S04  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Ue  could  tell,  but  there  ain't  any  evidence  far  's  I  know* 
Whoever  it  was  robbed  the  safe," 

The  old  cattleman  made  no  comment  Fromthedays 
of  their  youth  Steehnan  had  been  his  bitter  enemy,  but 
death  had  dosed  the  account  between  them.  His  mind 
traveled  back  to  those  days  twenty-five  years  ago  when 
he  and  the  sheepman  had  both  hitched  their  horses  in 
front  of  Helen  Kaddiffs  home.  It  had  been  a  fair  fight 
between  them,  and  he  had  won  as  a  man  should.  But 
Brad  had  not  taken  his  defeat  as  a  man  should.  He 
had  nourished  bitterness  and  played  his  successful  rival 
many  a  mean  despicable  trick.  Out  of  these  had  grown] 
the  feud  between  them*  Crawford  did  not  know  ho  w  it 
had  come  about,  but  he  had  no  doubt  Steehnan  had 
somehow  fallen  a  victim  in  the  trap  he  had  been  building 
for  others. 

A  question  brought  his  mind  back  to  the  present 
The  teamster  was  talking:  " —  so  she  started  pronto*  j 
I  s'pose  you  was  n't  as  bad  hurt  as  Sanders  figured/ 

"mat's  that?"  asked  Crawford. 

"I  was  sayin'  Miss  Joyce  she  started  right  away  when 
the  note  come  from  Sanders." 

" What  note?" 

"The  one  teDin'  how  you  was  hurt  in  the  fire.' 

Crawford  turned.    "Come  here,  Dave,"  he 
hoarsely. 

Sanders  moved  across. 

"Hank  says  you  sent  a  note  to  Joyce  sayin'  I'd  1 
hurt  What  about  it?" 

"Why  would  I  do  that  when  you're  not  hurt?" 

"Then  you  did  n't?" 


GUXSIGHT  PASS  305 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Dave,  perplexed. 

"Some  one's  been  stringin'  you,  Hank,"  said  Craw- 
ford, smiling. 

The  teamster  scratched  his  head.  "No,  sir.  I  was 
there  when  she  left.  About  twelve  o'clock  last  night, 
mebbe  later." 

"But  Sanders  says  he  did  n't  send  a  note,  and  Joyce 
did  n't  come  here.  So  you  must  'a'  missed  connections 
somewhere." 

"Probably  you  saw  her  start  for  home,"  suggested 
Dave. 

Hank  stuck  to  his  guns.  "No,  sir.  She  was  on  that 
sorrel  of  hers,  an'  Keith  was  ridin'  behind  her.  I  saddled 
myself  and  took  the  horse  to  the  store.  They  was  waitin' 
there  for  me,  the  two  young  folks  an'  Juan." 

"Juan?" 

"Juan  Otero.  He  brought  the  note  an'  rode  back  with 
her." 

The  old  cattleman  felt  a  clutch  of  fear  at  his  heart. 
Juan  Otero  was  one  of  Dug  Doble's  men. 

"That  all  you  know,  Hank?" 

" That 's  all.  Miss  Joyce  said  for  me  to  get  this  wagon- 
load  of  grub  out  soon  as  I  could.  So  I  come  right  along." 

"Doble  been  seen  in  town  lately?"  asked  Dave. 

"Not  as  I  know  of.  Shorty  has." 

"Shorty  ain't  in  this." 

"Do  you  reckon  — ?" 

Sanders  cut  the  teamster  short.  "Some  of  Doble's 
work.  But  I  don't  see  why  he  sent  for  Keith  too." 

"He  didn't.  Keith  begged  to  go  along  an'  Miss 
Joyce  took  him." 


306  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

In  the  haggard,  unshaven  face  of  the  cattleman  Dave 
read  the  ghastly  fear  of  his  own  soul.  Doble  was  capable 
of  terrible  evil.  His  hatred,  jealousy,  and  passion  would 
work  together  to  poison  his  mind.  The  corners  of  his 
brain  had  always  been  full  of  lust  and  obscenity.  There 
was  this  difference  between  him  and  Shorty.  The  squat 
cowpuncher  was  a  clean  scoundrel.  A  child,  a  straight 
girl,  an  honest  woman,  would  be  as  safe  with  him  as  with 
simple-hearted  old  Buck  Byington.  But  Dug  Doble  — 
it  was  impossible  to  predict  what  he  would  do.  He  had 
a  vein  of  caution  in  his  make-up,  but  when  in  drink  he 
jettisoned  this  and  grew  ugly.  His  vanity  —  always  a 
large  factor  in  determining  his  actions  —  might  carry 
him  in  the  direction  of  decency  or  the  reverse. 

"  I  'm  glad  Keith 's  with  her,"  said  Hart,  who  had  joined 
the  group.  "With  Keith  and  the  Mexican  there  — " 
His  meaning  did  not  need  a  completed  sentence. 

"Question  is,  where  did  he  take  her,"  said  Crawford. 
"We  might  comb  the  hills  a  week  and  not  find  his  hole. 
I  wish  to  God  Shorty  was  still  here.  He  might  know." 

"He's  our  best  bet,  Bob,"  agreed  Dave.  "Find  him. 
He's  gone  off  somewhere  to  sleep.  Rode  away  less  than 
half  an  hour  since." 

"Which  way?" 

"Rode  toward  Bear  Canon,"  said  Crawford. 

"That's  a  lead  for  you,  Bob.  Figure  it  out.  He's 
done  —  completely  worn  out.  So  he  won't  go  far  - 
not  more  than  three-four  miles.  He'll  be  in  the  hills, 
under  cover  somewhere,  for  he  won't  forget  that  thou- 
sand dollars  reward.  So  he'll  be  lying  in  the  chaparral. 
That  means  he'll  be  above  where  the  fire  started.  If  I 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  307 

was  looking  for  him,  I'd  say  somewhere  back  of  Bear, 
Cattle,  or  San  Jacinto  would  be  the  likeliest  spot." 

"Good  guess,  Dave.  Somewheres  close  to  water,'5 
said  Bob.  "You  goin'  along  with  me?" 

"No.  Take  as  many  men  as  you  can  get.  I'm  going 
back,  if  I  can,  to  find  the  place  where  Otero  and  Miss 
Joyce  left  the  road.  Mr.  Crawford,  you'd  better  get 
back  to  town,  don't  you  think?  There  may  be  clues 
there  we  don't  know  anything  about  here.  Perhaps 
Miss  Joyce  may  have  got  back." 

"If  not,  I'll  gather  a  posse  to  rake  the  hills,  Dave. 
If  that  villain's  hurt  my  liT  girl  or  Keith — "  Craw- 
ford's whisper  broke.  He  turned  away  to  conceal  the 
working  of  his  face. 

"He  hasn't,"  said  Bob  with  decision.  "Dug  ain't  crazy 
even  if  his  actions  look  like  it.  I  've  a  notion  when  Mr. 
Crawford  gets  back  to 'town  Miss  Joyce  will  be  there  all 
right.  Like  as  not  Dug  brought  her  back  himself.  Maybe 
he  sent  for  her  just  to  brag  awhile.  You  know  Dug." 

That  was  the  worst  of  it,  so  far  as  any  allaying  of 
their  fear  went.  They  did  know  Doble.  They  knew  him 
for  a  thorough  black-hearted  scoundrel  who  might 
stop  at  nothing. 

The  three  men  moved  toward  the  remuda.  None  of 
them  had  slept  for  forty-eight  hours.  They  had  been 
through  a  grueling  experience  that  had  tried  soul  and 
body  to  the  limit.  But  none  of  them  hesitated  for  an 
instant.  They  belonged  to  the  old  West  which  answers 
the  call  no  matter  what  the  personal  cost.  There  was 
work  to  do.  Not  one  of  them  would  quit  as  long  as  he 
could  stick  to  the  saddle. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
SHORTY  IS  AWAKENED 

THE  eyes  that  looked  into  those  of  Joyce  in  the  gloom 
of  the  cabin  abruptly  shook  off  sleep.  They  passed  from 
an  amazed  incredulity  to  a  malicious  triumph. 

"  So  you've  come  to  old  Dug,  have  you,  my  pretty?" 
a  heavy  voice  jeered. 

The  girl  writhed  and  twisted  regardless  of  the  pain, 
exerting  every  muscle  of  the  strong  young  arm  and 
shoulder.  As  well  she  might  have  tried  to  beat  down  an 
iron  door  with  her  bare  hands  as  to  hope  for  escape  from 
his  strong  grip.  He  made  a  motion  to  draw  her  closer. 
Joyce  flung  herself  back  and  sank  down  beside  the 
bunk,  straining  away. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  terror  rampant  in  her  white 
face.  "  Don't  touch  me!  Let  me  go!" 

The  force  of  her  recoil  had  drawn  him  to  his  side. 
His  cruel,  mirthless  grin  seemed  to  her  to  carry  inex- 
pressible menace.  Very  slowly,  while  his  eyes  taunted 
her,  he  pulled  her  manacled  wrist  closer. 

There  was  a  swift  flash  of  white  teeth.  With  a 
startled  oath  Doble  snatched  his  arm  away.  Savage  as  a 
tigress,  Joyce  had  closed  her  teeth  on  his  forearm. 

She  fell  back,  got  to  her  feet,  and  fled  from  the  house. 
Doble  was  after  her  on  the  instant.  She  dodged  round  a 
tree,  doubled  on  her  course,  then  deflected  toward  the 
corral.  Swift  and  supple  though  she  was,  his  long  strides 
brought  him  closer.  Again  she  screamed. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  309 

Doble  caught  her.  She  fought  in  his  arms,  a  prey  to 
wild  and  unreasoning  terror. 

"You  young  hell-cat,  I'm  not  gonna  hurt  you,"  he 
said.  "What's  the  use  o'  actin'  crazy?" 

He  could  have  talked  to  the  waves  of  the  sea  with  as 
much  effect.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  him. 

There  was  a  patter  of  rapid  feet.  A  small  body 
hurled  itself  against  Doble's  leg  and  clung  there,  beat- 
ing his  thigh  with  a  valiant  little  fist. 

"You  le'  my  sister  go!  You  le'  my  sister  go!"  the 
boy  shouted,  repeating  the  words  over  and  over. 

Doble  looked  down  at  Keith.  "What  the  hell?"  he 
demanded,  amazed. 

The  Mexican  came  forward  and  spoke  in  Spanish 
rapidly.  He  explained  that  he  could  not  have  prevented 
the  boy  from  coming  without  arousing  the  suspicions  of 
his  sister  and  her  friends. 

The  outlaw  was  irritated.  All  this  clamor  of  fear 
annoyed  and  disturbed  him.  This  was  not  the  scene  he 
had  planned  in  his  drink-inspired  reveries.  There  had 
been  a  time  when  Joyce  had  admired  the  virile  force  of 
him,  when  she  had  let  herself  be  kind  to  him  under  the 
impression  she  was  influencing  him  for  his  good.  He 
had  misunderstood  the  reaction  of  her  mind  and  sup- 
posed that  if  he  could  get  her  away  from  the  influence 
of  her  father  and  the  rest  of  his  enemies,  she  would 
again  listen  to  what  he  called  reason. 

"All  right.  You  brought  the  brat  here  without  orders. 
Now  take  him  home  again,"  directed  Doble  harshly. 

Otero  protested  fluently,  with  gestures  eloquent. 
He  had  not  yet  been  paid  for  his  services.  By  this  time 


310  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Malapi  might  be  too  hot  for  him.  He  did  not  intend 
ever  to  go  back.  He  was  leaving  the  country  pronto  — 
muy  pronto.  The  boy  could  go  back  when  his  sister 
went. 

"His  sister's  not  going  back.  Soon  as  it  gets  dark 
we'll  travel  south.  She's  gonna  be  my  wife.  You  can 
take  the  kid  back  to  the  road  an'  leave  him  there." 

Again  the  Mexican  lifted  hands  and  shoulders  while 
he  pattered  volubly,  trying  to  make  himself  heard  above 
the  cries  of  the  child.  Dug  had  silenced  Joyce  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  clapping  his  big  hand  over  her 
mouth. 

Doble's  other  hand  went  into  his  pocket.  He  drew  out 
a  flat  package  of  currency  bound  together  with  rubber 
bands.  His  sharp  teeth  drew  off  one  of  the  rubbers. 
From  the  bundle  he  stripped  four  fifty-dollar  bills  and 
handed  them  to  Otero. 

"Peel  this  kid  off'n  my  leg  and  hit  the  trail,  Juan.  I 
don'  care  where  you  leave  him  so  long  as  you  keep  an 
eye  on  him  till  afternoon." 

With  difficulty  the  Mexican  dragged  the  boy  from 
his  hold  on  Doble  and  carried  him  to  a  horse.  He  swung 
to  the  saddle,  dragged  Keith  up  in  front  of  him,  and 
rode  away  at  a  jog-trot.  The  youngster  was  screaming 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

As  his  horse  climbed  toward  the  notch,  Otero  looked 
back.  Doble  had  picked  up  his  prisoner  and  was  carry- 
ing her  into  the  house. 

The  Mexican  formulated  his  plans.  He  must  get  out 
of  the  country  before  the  hue  and  cry  started.  He  could 
not  count  on  more  than  a  few  hours  before  the  chase 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  311 

began.  First,  he  must  get  rid  of  the  child.  Then  he 
wanted  to  go  to  a  certain  tendejon  where  he  would  meet 
his  sweetheart  and  say  good-bye  to  her. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Doble  to  speak  of  taking  him 
to  town  or  to  the  road.  Juan  meant  to  do  neither.  He 
would  leave  him  in  the  hills  above  the  Jackpot  and  show 
him  the  way  down  there,  after  which  he  would  ride  to 
meet  the  girl  who  was  waiting  for  him.  This  would  give 
him  time  enough  to  get  away  safely.  It  was  no  business 
of  his  whether  or  not  Doble  was  taken.  He  was  an  over- 
bearing brute,  anyhow. 

An  hour's  riding  through  the  chaparral  brought  him 
to  the  watershed  far  above  the  Jackpot.  Otero  picked 
his  way  to  the  upper  end  of  a  gulch. 

"Leesten,  muchacho.  Go  down  —  down  —  down. 
First  the  gulch,  then  a  canon,  then  the  Jackpot.  You 
go  on  thees  trail." 

He  dropped  the  boy  to  the  ground,  watched  him  start, 
then  turned  away  at  a  Spanish  trot. 

The  trail  was  a  rough  and  precipitous  one.  Stumbling 
as  he  walked,  Keith  went  sobbing  down  the  gulch.  He 
had  wept  himself  out,  and  his  sobs  had  fallen  to  a  dry 
hiccough.  A  forlorn  little  chap,  tired  and  sleepy,  he 
picked  his  way  among  the  mesquite,  following  the  path 
along  the  dry  creek  bed.  The  catclaw  tore  his  stockings 
and  scratched  him.  Stone  bruises  hurt  his  tender  feet. 
He  kept  traveling,  because  he  was  afraid  to  give  up. 

He  reached  the  junction  of  the  gulch  and  the  canon. 
A  small  stream,  which  had  survived  the  summer 
drought,  trickled  down  the  bed  of  the  latter.  Through 
tangled  underbrush  Keith  crept  to  the  water.  He  lay 


312  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

down  and  drank,  after  which  he  sat  on  a  rock  and  pitied 
himself.  In  five  minutes  he  would  have  been  asleep  if  a 
sound  had  not  startled  him.  Some  one  was  snoring  on 
the  other  side  of  a  mesquite  thicket. 

Keith  jumped  up,  pushed  his  way  through,  and  al- 
most stumbled  over  a  sleeping  man.  He  knelt  down  and 
began  to  shake  the  snorer.  The  man  did  not  awaken. 
The  foghorn  in  his  throat  continued  to  rumble  inter- 
mittently, now  in  crescendo,  now  in  diminuendo. 

"Wake  up,  man!"  Keith  shouted  in  his  ear  in  the 
interval  between  shakes. 

The  sleeper  was  a  villainous-looking  specimen.  His 
face  and  throat  were  streaked  with  black.  There  was  an 
angry  wheal  across  his  cheek.  One  of  the  genus  tramp 
would  have  scorned  his  charred  clothes.  Keith  cared 
for  none  of  these  details.  He  wanted  to  unload  his 
troubles  to  a  "grown-up." 

The  youngster  roused  the  man  at  last  by  throwing 
water  in  his  face.  Shorty  sat  up,  at  the  same  time  drag- 
ging out  a  revolver.  His  gaze  fastened  on  the  boy,  after 
one  swift  glance  round. 

"Who's  with  you,  kid?"  he  demanded. 

Keith  began  to  sniffle.   "Nobody." 

"Whadyadoin'here?" 

"I  want  my  daddy." 

"Who  is  yore  daddy?  What's  yore  name?" 

"Keith  Crawford." 

Shorty  bit  off  an  oath  of  surprise.  "Howcome  you 
here?" 

"A  man  brought  me." 

The  rustler  brushed  the  col  !eep  from  his 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  313 

eyes  and  brain.  He  had  come  up  here  to  sleep  undis- 
turbed through  the  day  and  far  into  the  night.  Before 
he  had  had  two  hours  of  rest  this  boy  had  dragged  him 
back  from  slumber.  He  was  prepared  to  be  annoyed, 
but  he  wanted  to  make  sure  of  the  facts  first. 

As  far  as  he  understood  them,  the  boy  told  the  story 
of  the  night's  adventures.  Shorty's  face  grew  grim.  He 
appreciated  the  meaning  back  of  them  far  better  than 
the  little  fellow.  Keith's  answers  to  his  questions  told 
him  that  the  men  figuring  in  the  episode  must  be  Doble 
and  Otero.  Though  the  child  was  a  little  mixed  as  to  the 
direction  from  which  Otero  had  brought  him,  the  man 
was  pretty  sure  of  the  valley  where  Doble  was  lying  hid. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet.   "We'll  go,  kid." 

"To  daddy?" 

"Not  right  away.    We  got  hurry-up  business  first." 

"I  wanta  go  to  my  daddy." 

"Sure.  Soon  as  we  can.  But  we '11  drift  over  to  where 
yore  sister  's  at  first  off.  We  're  both  wore  to  a  frazzle, 
mebbe,  but  we  got  to  trail  over  an'  find  out  what's 
bitin'  Dug." 

The  man  saddled  and  took  the  up-trail,  Keith  cling- 
ing to  his  waist.  At  the  head  of  the  gulch  the  boy 
pointed  out  the  way  he  and  Otero  had  come.  This 
confirmed  Shorty's  opinion  as  to  the  place  where  Doble 
was  to  be  found. 

With  the  certainty  of  one  who  knew  these  hills  as 
a  preacher  does  his  Bible,  Shorty  wound  in  and  out, 
always  moving  by  the  line  of  least  resistance.  He  was 
steadily  closing  the  gap  of  miles  that  separated  him 
from  Dug  Doble. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
JUAN  OTERO  IS  CONSCRIPTED 

CRAWFORD  and  Sanders  rode  rapidly  toward  Malapi. 
They  stopped  several  times  to  examine  places  where 
they  thought  it  possible  Otero  might  have  left  the  road, 
but  they  looked  without  expectation  of  any  success. 
They  did  not  even  know  that  the  Mexican  had  started 
in  this  direction.  As  soon  as  he  reached  the  suburbs,  he 
might  have  cut  back  across  the  plain  and  followed  an 
entirely  different  line  of  travel. 

Several  miles  from  town  Sanders  pulled  up.  "I'm 
going  back  for  a  couple  of  miles.  Bob  was  telling  me  of 
a  Mexican  tendejon  in  the  hills  kept  by  the  father  of  a 
girl  Otero  goes  to  see.  She  might  know  where  he  is.  If  I 
can  get  hold  of  him  likely  I  can  make  him  talk." 

This  struck  Crawford  as  rather  a  wild-goose  chase, 
but  he  had  nothing  better  to  offer  himself  in  the  way  of  a 
plan. 

"Might  as  well,"  he  said  gloomily.  "I  don't  reckon 
you'll  find  him.  But  you  never  can  tell.  Offer  the  girl  a 
big  reward  if  she'll  tell  where  Doble  is.  I'll  hustle  to 
town  and  send  out  posses." 

They  separated.  Dave  rode  back  up  the  road,  swung 
off  at  the  place  Hart  had  told  him  of,  and  turned  up  a 
valley  which  pushed  to  the  roots  of  the  hills.  The  ten- 
dejon was  a  long,  flat-roofed  adobe  building  close  to  the 
trail. 

Dave  walked  through  the  open  door  into  the  bar- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  315 

room.  Two  or  three  men  were  lounging  at  a  table.  Be- 
hind a  counter  a  brown-eyed  Mexican  girl  was  rinsing 
glasses  in  a  pail  of  water. 

The  young  man  sauntered  forward  to  the  counter. 
He  invited  the  company  to  drink  with  him. 

"I'm  looking  for  Juan  Otero,"  he  said  presently. 
"Mr.  Crawford  wanted  me  to  see  him  about  riding  for 
him." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  All  of  those  present 
were  Mexicans  except  Dave.  The  girl  flashed  a  warning 
look  at  her  countrymen.  That  look,  Sanders  guessed  at 
once,  would  seal  the  lips  of  all  of  them.  At  once  he 
changed  his  tactics.  What  information  he  got  would 
have  to  come  directly  through  the  girl.  He  signaled  her 
to  join  him  outside. 

Presently  she  did  so.  The  girl  was  a  dusky  young 
beauty,  plump  as  a  partridge,  with  the  soft-eyed  charm 
of  her  age  and  race. 

"The  sefior  wants  to  see  me?"  she  asked. 

Her  glance  held  a  flash  of  mockery.  She  had  seen 
many  dirty,  poverty-stricken  mavericks  of  humanity, 
but  never  a  more  battered  specimen  than  this  gaunt, 
hollow-eyed  tramp,  black  as  a  coal-heaver,  whose  flesh 
showed  grimy  with  livid  wounds  through  the  shreds  of 
his  clothing.  But  beneath  his  steady  look  the  derision 
died.  Tattered  his  coat  and  trousers  might  be.  At  least 
he  was  a  prince  in  adversity.  The  head  on  the  splendid 
shoulders  was  still  finely  poised.  He  gave  an  impression 
of  indomitable  strength. 

"I  want  Juan  Otero,"  he  said. 

"To  ride  for  Sefior  Crawford."    Her  white  teeth 


316  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

flashed  and  she  lifted  her  pretty  shoulders  in  a  shrug  of 
mock  regret.  "Too  bad  he  is  not  here.  Some  other 
day- 

"  —  will  not  do.  I  want  him  now." 

"But  I  have  not  got  him  hid." 

"Where  is  he?  I  don't  want  to  harm  him,  but  I  must 
know.  He  took  Joyce  Crawford  into  the  hills  last  night 
to  Dug  Doble  —  pretended  her  father  had  been  hurt 
and  he  had  been  sent  to  lead  her  to  him.  I  must  save 
her  —  from  Doble,  not  from  Otero.  Help  me.  I  will  give 
you  money  —  a  hundred  dollars,  two  hundred." 

She  stared  at  him.  "Did  Juan  do  that?"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Yes.  You  know  Doble.  He's  a  devil.  I  must  find 
him  .  .  .  soon." 

"Juan  has  not  been  here  for  two  days.  I  do  not  know 
where  he  is." 

The  dust  of  a  moving  horse  was  traveling  toward  them 
from  the  hills.  A  Mexican  pulled  up  and  swung  from 
the  saddle.  The  girl  called  a  greeting  to  him  quickly  be- 
fore he  could  speak.  "Buenos  dios,  Manuel.  My  father 
is  within,  Manuel." 

The  man  looked  at  her  a  moment,  murmured ' '  Buenos, 
Bonita,"  and  took  a  step  as  though  to  enter  the  house. 

Dave  barred  the  way.  The  flash  of  apprehension  in 
Bonita's  face,  her  unnecessary  repetition  of  the  name, 
the  man's  questioning  look  at  her,  told  Sanders  that  this 
was  the  person  he  wanted. 

"Just  a  minute,  Otero.  Where  did  you  leave  Miss 
Crawford?" 

The  Mexican's  eyes  contracted.  To  give  himself  time 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  317 

he  fell  again  into  the  device  of  pretending  that  he  did 
not  understand  English.  Dave  spoke  in  Spanish.  The 
loafers  in  the  barroom  came  out  to  listen. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean/' 

"Don't  lie  to  me.   Where  is  she?" 

The  keeper  of  the  tendejon  asked  a  suave  question. 
He,  too,  talked  in  Spanish.  "Who  are  you,  senor?  A 
deputy  sheriff,  perhaps?" 

"No.  My  name  is  Dave  Sanders.  I'm  Emerson 
Crawford's  friend.  If  Juan  will  help  me  save  the  girl 
he'll  get  off  light  and  perhaps  make  some  money.  I'll 
stand  by  him.  But  if  he  won't,  I'll  drag  him  back  to 
Malapi  and  give  him  to  a  mob." 

The  sound  of  his  name  was  a  potent  weapon.  His 
fame  had  spread  like  wildfire  through  the  hills  since  his 
return  from  Colorado.  He  had  scored  victory  after  vic- 
tory against  bad  men  without  firing  a  gun.  He  had  made 
the  redoubtable  Dug  Doble  an  object  of  jeers  and  had 
driven  him  to  the  hills  as  an  outlaw.  Dave  was  unarmed. 
They  could  see  that.  But  his  quiet  confidence  was  im- 
pressive. If  he  said  he  would  take  Juan  to  Malapi  with 
him,  none  of  them  doubted  he  would  do  it.  Had  he  not 
dragged  Miller  back  to  justice  —  Miller  who  was  a 
killer  of  unsavory  reputation? 

Otero  wished  he  had  not  come  just  now  to  see  Bonita, 
but  he  stuck  doggedly  to  his  statement.  He  knew  noth- 
ing about  it,  nothing  at  all. 

"Crawford  is  sending  out  a  dozen  posses.  They  will 
close  the  passes.  Doble  will  be  caught.  They  will  kill 
him  like  a  wolf.  Then  they  will  kill  you.  If  they  don't 
find  him,  they  will  kill  you  anyhow." 


318  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave  spoke  evenly,  without  raising  his  voice.  Some- 
how he  made  wjiat  he  said  seem  as  inevitable  as  fate. 

Bonita  caught  her  lover  by  the  arm  and  shoulder. 
She  was  afraid,  and  her  conscience  troubled  her  vica- 
riously for  his  wrongdoing. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Juan?"  she  begged  of  him. 

"He  said  she  wanted  to  come,  that  she  would  marry 
him  if  she  had  a  chance.  He  said  her  father  kept  her 
from  him,"  the  man  pleaded.  "I  did  n't  know  he  was 
going  to  harm  her." 

"Where  is  he?  Take  me  to  him,  quick,"  said  Sanders, 
relapsing  into  English. 

"Si,  senor.  At  once,"  agreed  Otero,  thoroughly 
frightened. 

"I  want  a  six-shooter.   Some  one  lend  me  one." 

None  of  them  carried  one,  but  Bonita  ran  into  the 
house  and  brought  back  a  small  bulldog.  Dave  looked 
it  over  without  enthusiasm.  It  was  a  pretty  poor  con- 
cern to  take  against  a  man  who  carried  two  forty-fives 
and  knew  how  to  use  them.  But  he  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket  and  swung  to  the  saddle.  It  was  quite  possible 
he  might  be  killed  by  Doble,  but  he  had  a  conviction 
that  the  outlaw  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 
He  was  going  to  do  justice  on  the  man  once  for  all.  He 
regarded  this  as  a  certainty. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 
THE  BULLDOG  BARKS 

JOYCE  fainted  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

When  she  recovered  consciousness  Doble  was  splash- 
ing water  in  her  face.  She  was  lying  on  the  bunk  from 
which  she  had  fled  a  few  minutes  earlier.  The  girl  made 
a  motion  to  rise  andfhe  put  a  heavy  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der. 

"Keep  your  hand  off  me!"  she  cried. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  told  her  irritably.  "I  ain't 
gonna  hurt  you  none  —  if  you  behave  reasonable." 

"Let  me  go,"  she  demanded,  and  struggled  to  a  sit- 
ting position  on  the  couch.  "You  let  me  go  or  my 
father  - 

"What '11  he  do?"  demanded  the  man  brutally.  "I've 
stood  a  heap  from  that  father  of  yore's.  I  reckon  this 
would  even  the  score  even  if  I  hadn't — "  He  pulled 
up,  just  in  time  to  keep  from  telling  her  that  he  had  fired 
the  chaparral.  He  was  quite  sober  enough  to  distrust 
his  tongue.  It  was  likely,  he  knew,  to  let  out  some  things 
that  had  better  not  be  told. 

She  tried  to  slip  by  him  and  he  thrust  her  back. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  demanded.   "At  once!" 

"You're  not  gonna  go,"  he  told  her  flatly.  "You'll 
stay  here  —  with  me.  For  keeps.  Un'erstand?" 

"Have  you  gone  crazy?"  she  asked  wildly,  her  heart 
fluttering  like  a  frightened  bird  in  a  cage.  "Don't  you 
know  my  father  will  search  the  whole  country  for  me?" 


320  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

"Too  late.  We  travel  south  soon  as  it's  dark."  He 
leaned  forward  and  put  a  hand  on  her  knee,  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  she  shrank  back  quivering  from  his 
touch.  "Listen,  girl.  You  been  a  high-stepper.  Yore 
heels  click  mighty  loud  when  they  hit  the  sidewalk. 
Good  enough.  Go  far  as  you  like.  I  never  did  fancy  the 
kind  o'  women  that  lick  a  man's  hand.  But  you  made 
one  mistake.  I'm  no  doormat,  an'  nobody  alive  can 
wipe  their  feet  on  me.  You  turned  me  down  cold. 
You  had  the  ol'  man  kick  me  outa  my  job  as  foreman  of 
the  ranch.  I  told  him  an'  you  both  I  'd  git  even.  But  I 
don't  aim  to  rub  it  in.  I'm  gonna  give  you  a  chance  to 
be  Mrs.  Doble.  An'  when  you  marry  me  you  git  a  man 
for  a  husband." 

"I'll  never  marry  you!  Never!  I'd  rather  be  dead 
in  my  grave!"  she  broke  out  passionately. 

He  went  to  the  table,  poured  himself  a  drink,  and 
gulped  it  down.  His  laugh  was  sinister  and  mirthless. 

"Please  yorese'f,  sweetheart,"  he  jeered.  "Only  you 
won't  be  dead  in  yore  grave.  You  '11  be  keepin'  house  for 
Dug  Doble.  I'm  not  insistin'  on  weddin'  bells  none. 
But  women  have  their  fancies  an'  I  aim  to  be  kind. 
Take  'em  or  leave  'em." 

She  broke  down  and  wept,  her  face  in  her  hands.  In 
her  sheltered  life  she  had  known  only  decent,  clean- 
minded  people.  She  did  not  know  how  to  cope  with  a 
man  like  this.  The  fear  of  him  rose  in  her  throat  and 
choked  her.  This  dreadful  thing  he  threatened  could 
not  be,  she  told  herself.  God  would  not  permit  it.  He 
would  send  her  father  or  Dave  Sanders  or  Bob  Hart  to 
rescue  her.  And  yet  —  when  she  looked  at  the  man,  big, 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  321 

gross,  dominant,  flushed  with  drink  and  his  triumph  — 
the  faith  in  her  became  a  weak  and  fluid  stay  for  her 
soul.  She  collapsed  like  a  child  and  sobbed. 

Her  wild  alarm  annoyed  him.  He  was  angered  at 
her  uncontrollable  shudders  when  he  drew  near.  There 
was  a  savage  desire  in  him  to  break  through  the  de- 
fense of  her  helplessness  once  for  all.  But  his  caution 
urged  delay.  He  must  give  her  time  to  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  idea  of  him.  She  had  sense  enough  to 
see  that  she  must  make  the  best  of  the  business. 
When  the  terror  lifted  from  her  mind  she  would  be  rea- 
sonable. 

He  repeated  again  that  he  was  not  going  to  hurt  her 
if  she  met  him  halfway,  and  to  show  good  faith  went  out 
and  left  her  alone. 

The  man  sat  down  on  a  chopping-block  outside  and 
churned  his  hatred  of  Sanders  and  Crawford.  He 
spurred  himself  with  drink,  under  its  influence  recalling 
the  injuries  they  had  done  him.  His  rage  and  passion 
simmered,  occasionally  exploded  into  raucous  curses. 
Once  he  strode  into  the  house,  full  of  furious  intent,  but 
the  eyes  of  the  girl  daunted  him.  They  looked  at  him  as 
they  might  have  looked  at  a  tiger  padding  toward  her. 

He  flung  out  of  the  house  again,  snarling  at  his  own 
weakness.  There  was  something  in  him  stronger  than 
passion,  stronger  than  his  reckless  will,  that  would  not 
let  him  lay  a  hand  on  her  in  the  light  of  day.  His  blood- 
shot eyes  looked  for  the  sun.  In  a  few  hours  now  it 
would  be  dark. 

While  he  lounged  sullenly  on  the  chopping-block, 
shoulders  and  head  sunken,  a  sound  brought  him  to 


322  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

alert  attention.    A  horseman  was  galloping  down  the 
slope  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley. 

Doble  eased  his  guns  to  make  sure  of  them.  Intently 
he  watched  the  approaching  figure.  He  recognized  the 
horse,  Chiquito,  and  then,  with  an  oath,  the  rider.  His 
eyes  gleamed  with  evil  joy.  At  last !  At  last  he  and  Dave 
Sanders  would  settle  accounts.  One  of  them  would  be 
carried  out  of  the  valley  feet  first. 

Sanders  leaped  to  the  ground  at  the  same  instant  that 
he  pulled  Chiquito  up.  The  horse  was  between  him  and 
his  enemy. 

The  eyes  of  the  men  crossed  in  a  long,  level  look. 
'"Where's  Joyce  Crawford?"  asked  Dave. 

"That  yore  business?"  Doble  added  to  his  retort 
the  insult  unmentionable. 

"I'm  makin'  it  mine.  What  have  you  done  with 
her?"  The  speech  of  the  younger  man  took  on  again 
the  intonation  of  earlier  days.  "I'm  here  to  find  out." 

A  swish  of  skirts,  a  soft  patter  of  feet,  and  Joyce  was 
beside  her  friend,  clinging  to  him,  weeping  in  his  arms. 

Doble  moved  round  in  a  wide  circumference.  When 
shooting  began  he  did  not  want  his  foe  to  have  the  pro- 
tection of  the  horse's  body.  Not  even  for  the  beat  of  a 
lid  did  the  eyes  of  either  man  lift  from  the  other. 

"Go  back  to  the  house,  Joyce,"  said  Dave  evenly. 
"I  want  to  talk  with  this  man  alone." 

The  girl  clung  the  tighter  to  him.  "No,  Dave,  no! 
It's  been  .  .  .  awful." 

The  outlaw  drew  his  long-barreled  six-shooter,  still 
circling  the  group.  He  could  not  fire  without  running  a 
risk  of  hitting  Joyce. 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  323 

"Hidin'  behind  a  woman,  are  you?"  he  taunted,  and 
again  flung  the  epithet  men  will  not  tolerate. 

At  any  moment  he  might  fire.  Dave  caught  the 
wrists  of  the  girl,  dragged  them  down  from  his  neck, 
and  flung  her  roughly  from  him  to  the  ground.  He 
pulled  out  his  little  bulldog. 

Doble  fired  and  Dave  fell.  The  outlaw  moved  cau- 
tiously closer,  exultant  at  his  marksmanship.  His 
enemy  lay  still,  the  pistol  in  his  hand.  Apparently 
Sanders  had  been  killed  at  the  first  shot. 

"Come  to  git  me  with  that  popgun,  did  you?  Hmp! 
Fat  chance."  The  bad  man  fired  again,  still  approach- 
ing very  carefully. 

Round  the  corner  of  the  house  a  man  had  come.  He 
spoke  quickly.  "Turn  yore  gun  this  way,  Dug." 

It  was  Shorty.  His  revolver  flashed  at  the  same  in- 
stant. Doble  staggered,  steadied  himself,  and  fired. 

The  forty-fives  roared.  Yellow  flames  and  smoke 
spurted.  The  bulldog  barked.  Dave's  parlor  toy  had 
come  into  action. 

Out  of  the  battle  Shorty  and  Sanders  came  erect  and 
uninjured.  Doble  was  lying  on  the  ground,  his  revolver 
smoking  a  foot  or  two  from  the  twitching,  outstretched 
hand. 

The  outlaw  was  dead  before  Shorty  turned  him  over. 
A  bullet  had  passed  through  the  heart.  Another  had 
struck  him  on  the  temple,  a  third  in  the  chest. 

"We  got  him  good,"  said  Shorty.  "It  was  comin*  to 
him.  I  reckon  you  don't  know  that  he  fired  the  chapar- 
ral on  purpose.  Wanted  to  wipe  out  the  Jackpot,  I 
s'pose.  Yes,  Dug  sure  had  it  comin'  to  him." 


324  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

Dave  said  nothing.  He  looked  down  at  the  man,  eyes 
hard  as  jade,  jaw  clamped  tight.  He  knew  that  but  for 
Shorty's  arrival  he  would  probably  be  lying  there  him- 
self. ' 

"I  was  aimin'  to  shoot  it  out  with  him  before  I  heard 
of  this  last  scullduggery.  Soon  as  the  kid  woke  me  I 
hustled  up  my  intentions."  The  bad  man  looked  at 
Dave's  weapon  with  the  flicker  of  a  smile  on  his  face. 
"He  called  it  a  popgun.  I  took  notice  it  was  a  right 
busy  liT  plaything.  But  you  got  yore  nerve  all  right. 
I'd  say  you  had  n't  a  chance  in  a  thousand.  You  played 
yore  hand  fine,  keelin'  over  so 's  he  'd  come  clost  enough 
for  you  to  get  a  crack  at  him.  At  that,  he'd  maybe 
'a'  got  you  if  I  had  n't  drapped  in." 

"Yes,"  said  Sanders. 

He  walked  across  to  the  corral  fence,  where  Joyce  sat 
huddled  against  the  lower  bars. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  from  wan  eyes 
out  of  which  the  life  had  been  stricken.  They  stared  at 
him  in  dumb,  amazed  questioning. 

Dave  lifted  her  from  the  ground. 

"I  ...  I  thought  you  .  .  .  were  dead,"  she  whispered. 

"Not  even  powder-burnt.  His  six-shooter  out- 
ranged mine.  I  was  trying  to  get  him  closer." 

"Is  he..  .  ?" 

"Yes.  He'll  never  trouble  any  of  us  again." 

She  shuddered  in  his  arms. 

Dave  ached  for  her  in  every  tortured  nerve.  He  did 
not  know,  and  it  was  not  his  place  to  ask,  what  price 
she  had  had  to  pay. 

Presently  she  told  him,  not  in  words,  without  know- 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  325 

ing  what  he  was  suffering  for  her.  A  ghost  of  a  smile 
touched  her  eyes. 

"I  knew  you  would  come.   It's  all  right  now." 

His  heart  leaped.   "Yes,  it's  all  right,  Joyce." 

She  recurred  to  her  fears  for  him.  "You're  not  .  .  . 
hiding  any  wounds  from  me?  I  saw  you  fall  and  lie 
there  while  he  shot  at  you." 

"He  never  touched  me." 

She  disengaged  herself  from  his  arms  and  looked  at 
him,  wan,  haggard,  unshaven,  eyes  sunken,  a  tattered 
wretch  scarred  with  burns. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?"  she  asked,  as- 
tonished at  his  appearance. 

"Souvenirs  of  the  fire,"  he  told  her.  "They'll  wash 
and  wear  off.  Don't  suppose  I  look  exactly  pretty." 

He  had  never  looked  so  handsome  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XLV 
JOYCE  MAKES  PIES 

JUAN  OTERO  carried  the  news  back  to  Malapi.  He  had 
been  waiting  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  to  see  the  issue  of 
the  adventure  and  had  come  forward  when  Dave  gave 
him  a  signal. 

Shorty  brought  Keith  in  from  where  he  had  left  the 
boy  in  the  brush.  The  youngster  flew  into  his  sister's 
arms.  They  wept  over  each  other  and  she  petted  him 
with  caresses  and  little  kisses. 

Afterward  she  made  some  supper  from  the  supplies 
Doble  had  laid  in  for  his  journey  south.  The  men  went 
down  to  the  creek,  where  they  bathed  and  washed  their 
wounds.  Darkness  had  not  yet  fallen  when  they  went 
to  sleep,  all  of  them  exhausted  by  the  strain  through 
which  they  had  passed. 

Not  until  the  cold  crystal  dawn  did  they  awaken. 
Joyce  was  the  first  up.  She  had  breakfast  well  under 
way  before  she  had  Keith  call  the  still  sleeping  men. 
With  the  power  of  quick  recuperation  which  an  out- 
door life  had  given  them,  both  Shorty  and  Dave  were 
fit  for  any  exertion  again,  though  Sanders  was  still  suffer- 
ing from  his  burns. 

After  they  had  eaten  they  saddled.  Shorty  gave  them 
a  casual  nod  of  farewell. 

"Tell  Applegate  to  look  me  up  in  Mexico  if  he  wants 
me,"  he  said. 

Joyce  would  not  let  it  go  at  that.  She  made  him  shake 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  327 

hands.  He  was  in  the  saddle,  and  her  eyes  lifted  to  his 
and  showered  gratitude  on  him. 

"We'll  never  forget  you  —  never,"  she  promised. 
"And  we  do  so  hope  you'll  be  prosperous  and  happy." 

He  grinned  down  at  her  sheepishly.  "Same  to  you, 
Miss,"  he  said;  and  added,  with  a > flash  of  audacity, 
"To  you  and  Dave  both." 

He  headed  south,  the  others  north. 

From  the  hilltop  Dave  looked  back  at  the  squat 
figure  steadily  diminishing  with  distance.  Shorty  was 
moving  toward  Mexico,  unhasting  and  with  a  certain 
sureness  of  purpose  characteristic  of  him. 

Joyce  smiled.  It  was  the  first  signal  of  unquenchable 
youth  she  had  flashed  since  she  had  been  trapped  into 
this  terrible  adventure.  "I  believe  you  admire  him, 
Dave,"  she  mocked.  "You're  just  as  grateful  to  him 
as  I  am,  but  you  won't  admit  it.  He 's  not  a  bad  man 
at  all,  really." 

"He's  a  good  man  gone  bad.  But  I'll  say  this  for 
Shorty.  He's  some  man.  He'll  do  to  ride  the  river 
with." 

"Yes." 

"At  the  fire  he  was  the  best  fighter  in  my  gang  — 
saved  one  of  the  boys  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life. 
Shorty 's  no  quitter." 

She  shut  her  teeth  on  a  little  wave  of  emotion.  Then, 
"I'm  awful  sorry  for  him,"  she  said. 

He  nodded  appreciation  of  her  feeling.  "I  know,  but 
you  don't  need  to  worry  any.  He'll  not  worry  about 
himself.  He's  sufficient,  and  he'll  get  along." 

They  put  their  horses  to  the  trail  again. 


328  GUNSIGHT  PASS 

Crawford  met  them  some  miles  nearer  town.  He  had 
been  unable  to  wait  for  their  arrival.  Neither  he  nor 
the  children  could  restrain  their  emotion  at  sight  of  each 
other.  Dave  felt  they  might  like  to  be  alone  and  he  left 
the  party,  to  ride  across  to  the  tendejon  with  Bonita's 
bulldog  revolver. 

That  young  woman  met  him  in  front  of  the  house. 
She  was  eager  for  news.  Sanders  told  her  what  had 
taken  place.  They  spoke  in  her  tongue. 

"And  Juan  —  is  it  all  right  about  him?"  she  asked. 

"Juan  has  wiped  the  slate  clean.  Mr.  Crawford  wants 
to  know  when  Bonita  is  to  be  married.  He  has  a  wed- 
ding present  for  her." 

She  was  all  happy  smiles  when  he  left  her. 

Late  that  afternoon  Bob  Hart  reached  town.  He  and 
Dave  were  alone  in  the  Jackpot  offices  when  the  latter 
forced  himself  to  open  a  subject  that  had  always  been 
closed  between  them.  Sanders  came  to  it  reluctantly. 
No  man  had  ever  found  a  truer  friend  than  he  in  Bob 
Hart.  The  thing  he  was  going  to  do  seemed  almost  like 
a  stab  in  the  back. 

"How  about  you  and  Joyce,  Bob?"  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  met  and  held.  "What  about  us, 
Dave?" 

"It's  like  this,"  Sanders  said,  flushed  and  embar- 
rassed. "You  were  here  first.  You're  entitled  to  first 
chance.  I  meant  to  keep  out  of  it,  but  things  have  come 
up  in  spite  of  me.  I  want  to  do  whatever  seems  right  to 
you.  My  idea  is  to  go  away  till  —  till  you've  settled 
how  you  stand  with  her.  Is  that  fair?" 


GUNSIGHT  PASS  329 

Bob  smiled,  ruefully.  "Fair  enough,  old-timer.  But 
no  need  of  it.  I  never  had  a  chance  with  Joyce,  not  a 
dead  man's  look-in.  Found  that  out  before  ever  you 
came  home.  The  field  's  clear  far  as  I  'm  concerned.  Hop 
to  it  an'  try  yore  luck." 

Dave  took  his  advice,  within  the  hour.  He  found 
Joyce  at  home  in  the  kitchen.  She  was  making  pies 
energetically.  The  sleeves  of  her  dress  were  rolled  up  to 
the  elbows  and  there  was  a  dab  of  flour  on  her  temple 
where  she  had  brushed  back  a  rebellious  wisp  of  hair. 

She  blushed  prettily  at  sight  of  her  caller.  "I  did  n't 
know  it  was  you  when  I  called  to  come  in.  Thought 
it  was  Keith  playing  a  trick  on  me." 

Both  of  them  were  embarrassed.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  him  in  the  kitchen  and  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  himself.  The  girl  was  acutely  conscious 
that  yesterday  she  had  flung  herself  into  his  arms  with- 
out shame. 

"I'll  go  right  on  with  my  pies  if  you  don't  mind," 
she  said.  "I  can  talk  while  I  work." 

"Yes." 

But  neither  of  them  talked.  She  rolled  pie-crust  while 
the  silence  grew  significant. 

"Are  your  burns  still  painful?"  she  asked  at  last,  to 
make  talk. 

"Yes  —  no.  Beg  pardon,  I  —  I  was  thinking  of 
something  else." 

Joyce  flashed  one  swift  look  at  him.  She  knew  that  an 
emotional  crisis  was  upon  her.  He  was  going  to  brush 
aside  the  barriers  between  them.  Her  pulses  began  to 
beat  fast.  There  was  the  crash  of  music  in  her  blood. 


330  GTJNSIGHT  PASS 

"I've  got  to  tell  you,  Joyce,"  he  said  abruptly.  "It's 
been  a  fight  for  me  ever  since  I  came  home.  I  love  you. 
I  think  I  always  have  —  even  when  I  was  in  prison." 

She  waited,  the  eyes  in  her  lovely,  flushed  face  shining. 

"I  had  no  right  to  think  of  you  then,"  he  went  on. 
"I  kept  away  from  you.  I  crushed  down  hope.  I 
nursed  my  bitterness  to  prove  to  me  there  could  never 
be  anything  between  us.  Then  Miller  confessed  and  — 
and  we  took  our  walk  over  the  hills.  After  that  the  sun 
shone.  I  came  out  from  the  mists  where  I  had  been 
lining." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "But  Miller's 
co  ifession  made  no  difference  in  my  thought  of  you.  I 
did  n't  need  that  to  know  you." 

"But  I  could  n't  come  to  you  even  then.  I  knew  how 
Bob  Hart  felt,  and  after  all  he'd  done  for  me  it  was 
fair  he  should  have  first  chance." 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling  shyly.  "You're  very 
generous." 

"No.  I  thought  you  cared  for  him.  It  seemed  to  me 
any  woman  must.  There  are  n't  many  men  like  Bob." 

"Not  many,"  she  agreed.  "But  I  could  n't  love  Bob 
because" — her  steadfast  eyes  met  his  bravely  — 
"because  of  another  man.  Always  have  loved  him,  ever 
since  that  night  years  ago  when  he  saved  my  father's 
life.  Do  you  really  truly  love  me,  Dave?" 

"God  knows  I  do,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"I'm  glad  —  oh,  awf'ly  glad."  She  gave  him  her 
hands,  tears  in  her  soft  brown  eyes.  "Because  I've  been 
waiting  for  you  so  long.  I  did  n't  know  whether  you 
ever  were  coming  to  me." 


GTJNSIGHT  PASS  331 

Crawford  found  them  there  ten  minutes  later.  He 
was  looking  for  Joyce  to  find  him  a  collar-button  that 
was  missing. 

"Dawggone  my  hide!"  he  fumed,  and  stopped  ab- 
ruptly, the  collar-button  forgotten. 

Joyce  flew  out  of  Dave's  arms  into  her  father's. 

"Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy,  I'm  so  happy,"  she  whispered 
from  the  depths  of  his  shoulder. 

The  cattleman  looked  at  Dave,  and  his  rough  face 
worked.   "Boy,  you're  in  luck.   Be  good  to  her,  or  I'll 
skin  you  alive."    He  added,  by  way  of  softening  tL 
useless  threat,  "I'd  rather  it  was  you  than  anybody  < 
earth,  Dave."  l 

The  young  man  looked  at  her,  his  Joy-in-life,  the 
woman  who  had  brought  him  back  to  youth  and  happ 
ness,  and  he  answered  with  a  surge  of  emotion : 

"I '11  sure  try." 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .  S  .  A 


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